Screams of Silence
by Roland 'Jim' Lowery
Summary: Daria sets off for Boston and Raft College, but ends up taking a detour a little further north than expected.
1. Home

The following short story is based on characters created and/or copyrighted by Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis Lynn, and MTV. All other characters were created and copyrighted by Roland Lowery.

The author gives full permission to distribute this work freely, as long as no alterations are made and the exchange of monetary units is not involved. Any questions, comments, suggestions, or complaints should be sent to **esn1g(at)yahoo(dot)com**. Thank you.

* * *

"The eternal silence of these infinite spaces fills me with dread."  
-Blaise Pascal

* * *

**Screams of Silence**  
by Roland 'Jim' Lowery

_I woke up, as_ I usually did, to the sight of the grey padding that lined most of my bedroom wall.

To many, naturally, this would be a most unwelcome wake up call, a reminder of the insanity surrounding them or perhaps a note that they themselves were insane. For me, it had always been a sort of layer between me and the rest of the world. Rather than keeping me in, I looked upon it as keeping everyone else out. Seeing that thick padding every morning always made me feel, for lack of a better word, safe.

But no matter how safe I might have felt in my little cocoon, I knew that eventually I would have to emerge, a cranky butterfly taking flight in search of the closest cup of warm coffee. I gradually pulled myself out of bed, stretched until it seemed as if every single joint in my body had popped twice over, then slipped my glasses on my face and pulled on a pair of socks to ward off the cold chill running along the floor.

I stumbled blearily into the hallway, yawning as I started trudging toward the stairs. Along the way, I rapped loudly on the bathroom door to let my sister know I'd need in there myself soon enough and that she needed to hurry her skinny little butt up. I did this, of course, knowing full well that it probably wouldn't work. Her morning preparation ritual was as fixed as the phases of the moon and took almost as long to complete.

Downstairs, the kitchen was blissfully empty. Thoughts of Dad still being asleep and Mom having left for the office early hovered mere inches from my still sleep-addled mind, but I shooed them away and decided to simply enjoy the experience while it lasted. There was no need to jinx things.

Somehow I managed to get the coffee machine working with only one eye open. As it softly gurgled to itself, I set my forehead against one of the cabinet doors and began to slowly ponder of what my once and future breakfast for the day would consist. Leftovers from the fridge or cold cereal seemed the most logical choices, but I did consider being brave and trying for that impossible dream . . . toast.

A few minutes later I realized that I was starting to doze off again when I opened my eye and found that the coffee level had jumped from just a small stain of brown at the bottom to nearly half a pot without my noticing the intervening passage of time. I slipped a mug under the drip as I pulled the pot out and quickly poured myself a healthy portion before setting it back to finish.

Wake-up juice in hand, I shuffled over to the sliding glass door and stared out at the backyard sitting just beyond. Or, rather, what little bit of the backyard I could actually see.

At some point during the night, a fog had apparently rolled in. Either that or a shipment of grey cotton had accidentally gotten dumped behind our house. It certainly looked as thick as cotton as it slowly slid by thanks to a soft air current. The grass seemed to simply disappear halfway out into the yard, cut off abruptly by a void of mist. Nothing beyond that point was visible.

I sipped carefully at my coffee for a few minutes as I stared into that impenetrable fog and woke up by degrees. Then, feeling a sudden and inexplicable urge, I set down the mug, slipped off my socks, and slid open the door to step outside.

The chill wasn't quite as bad as I had expected it to be. The tiny hairs along the exposed areas of my flesh stood up, but all in all it was actually quite comfortable. The dew that seeped between my bare toes, however, felt like tiny shards of ice cutting their way across my skin. Gritting my teeth and bearing it, I took several steps out into the yard and watched in fascination as the fog rolled away from me.

I knew that the whole effect was due to the way light was being passed through the water vapor, but the idea of having my own personal bubble in the fog that moved with me was strangely soothing and empowering at the same time. I smiled lightly as I continued walking and more of the yard came into view.

A dark shape loomed ahead, taking the form of a tree as I approached. The green of the leaves and dull silver of the bark could be discerned a few steps later, and I could spot a few squirrels moving through the branches. It was at that point that I froze in my tracks and felt all the blood drain from my face.

There was something seriously wrong with the squirrels.

Dad hated squirrels with a passion. Asking him, one would think that all of the world's ills were caused by the tiny, furry bastards. The squirrels I was looking at were something else entirely, and for once I found myself leaning toward complete agreement with my dad's usual cockamamie rants. If any squirrels in the world were capable of even half the things he claimed, those would have been the ones.

The eyes were the worst. I started to back away, one hesitant step after another, but it was the very thought that they might turn those eyes my way and _look_ at me that spun me around and sent me running for the door.

The second I did so, I could hear them behind me. Several loud thumps filled the still air as bodies the size of your average dog hit the ground. And I could feel them, feel those eyes on my back as they followed me on swift legs. I lurched forward into the house, skidded for a couple of steps, then turned back and slammed the door hard enough that I was afraid I might end up shattering it in my haste.

The first hairless body hit the plate a few seconds later, but the glass mercifully remained intact. The stymied demon squirrel fell back, shook its misshapen head, and glared up at me with those awful red orbs. It then slunk back a few feet, its every movement that of a predator on the prowl, and began to pace around with its compatriots, undoubtedly trying to judge with what little intelligence it could bring to bear its chances of getting inside.

My coffee was still sitting on the table, gradually cooling and completely forgotten as I ran back to the kitchen drawers and started rifling through them. The panic I was already feeling deep in my chest nearly doubled when it seemed as if everything had been moved around on me, but after taking a few heaving breaths, I finally deduced that I was looking on the wrong side and turned around to search the other counter.

I finally located the drawer I was looking for and pulled out a long, thick blade nearly the width of my forearm and set in a sturdy hardwood handle. I wasn't entirely certain I could muster up the capability to actually wound one of the monsters wandering around outside with the knife that Mom used to carve the turkey on those rare Thanksgivings we had one, but every bit of survival instinct I had in me was screaming, telling me that I had to have something in my hand or I was going to die.

Armed and dangerous - probably just as much to myself as to the demon squirrels - I reached out with my free hand and fumbled around for the telephone. Trying to keep an eye on the back door at the same time made the task more difficult than it had probably needed to be, but I successfully grasped it on the fifth try and dialed 911 before putting it up to my ear.

Nothing but static. No dial tone, no authoritative operator's voice, no busy signal, no anything but random noise crackling in my ear. I turned the phone off and slapped it down on the counter in frustration before I started moving back toward the living room with both hands holding the knife out in front of me.

A loud crunching, snapping noise startled me, and I spun around to find that I was no longer alone in the first floor of the house. I swiftly deduced that this newcomer was not at all familiar to me, a conclusion based primarily on the fact that it was just as obviously inhuman and twisted as the demon squirrels outside. It was hunched over an oddly shaped mass in the corner of the room that I couldn't quite make out, but whatever the lumpy thing was, the monster was obviously tearing into it and devouring it piece by piece with gusto.

The small cry that escaped my lips at that moment caused the creature to snap its head up and around. It slowly turned in my direction as blood dripped from its steel grey beak. Its wings spread out, knocking over a nearby nightstand, and it settled down into an attack posture before letting out a shriek and charging in my direction. I let out a pitiful shriek of my own, closed my eyes, and held the knife out in the hopes that the creature would impale itself.

It did, and I felt the force of the impact travel painfully all the way up my arms and into my shoulders, but that didn't stop the beast from sending my blood splattering across the room as it tore my throat out with the points of its cruel, sharp beak.


	2. On the Road

I woke up, strangely, to the sight of a kitchen cabinet door pressed up against my forehead.

With a sudden, violent jerk, I pulled myself back and searched around wildly for a few seconds before I realized that the entire episode had been nothing more than a nightmare. I took a moment to calm my breathing and poured myself a cup of coffee from the already-full pot.

Despite having reassured myself that it hadn't been real, I still glanced into the living room on my way over to the sliding door just to be sure. The far corner of the room held neither a strange, bloody lump nor a bird-like creature ready to lunge for my vulnerable spots. The day on the other side of the glass was turning out bright and sunny with no sign of any fog whatsoever. The only squirrels I could see were the normal bushy-tailed variety jumping from branch to branch and chattering noisily at each other.

Even the chill that I had felt before seemed to be nothing more than a figment of my half-awake imagination, which only stood to reason. It was getting on into the hottest part of summer, after all, where even the coolest of mornings could feel somewhat balmy. The house's AC could certainly freeze us all out if it was set to do so, but after assessing my immediate environment, I decided that it was, for once, at just the right temperature.

After a few slurps of coffee, I was finally starting to feel like a decent human being again. Well, I was beginning to feel more like myself, anyway, and feeling like myself was actually starting to feel pretty good.

It wasn't to last, of course.

"Why, Daria, you made coffee for everyone! How thoughtful! So where exactly did you hide the _real_ Daria, and do you think you could teach her to be just as thoughtful?"

"Hey, kiddo! What a fan-TAB-ulous morning, huh? I just- HEY! HEY, YOU SQUIRRELS! GET OFF OF THERE! GAH! _DAMMIT!_"

"Ew, _Da_-ria! Don't you know that stuff, like, stunts your growth? And it's not like you've got much time left to actually grow! Muh-_om_, would you tell Daria that if she's going to make coffee, she should at _least_ cut open a grapefruit or two for everyone, too?"

Good mood verging on ruined already, I slammed down the last of my lukewarm drink, set the mug on the counter next to the sink, and took advantage of the fact that the upstairs bathroom was finally free. As I hopped in the shower, I kept reminding myself over and over again that soon enough I would no longer have to put up with all the constant cheerfulness assaulting me from every direction, a situation made all the worse by how forced it sounded most of the time.

I loved my family. It would have sounded strange for to ever say that, which is one of the reasons why I never said it. Just thinking it sent conflicting neural impulses scampering about my brain for several seconds in a confused panic, mostly because even as much as I loved them, I really really _really_ just wanted them to go away and leave me alone forever sometimes.

Thankfully, as a temporary respite, I was going to be doing the next best thing. I was going to be leaving them.

When I got back downstairs, things had settled into a sort of low-level desperation around the kitchen table. Mom had managed to throw together some half-hearted breakfast items which she was devouring mostly by herself. Quinn daintily nibbled at a square of dry toast and was being generally ignored while she nattered on and on about what she and her three air-headed friends would be doing once the next school year started. Dad, as usual, had his head buried in a newspaper and only turned his attention away from it in order to throw furtive dirty glances at his fuzzy nemeses in the back yard.

I sat down in my customary seat and stretched my legs a bit. I still hadn't quite gotten used to the switch from my regular skirt to the jeans I was wearing, but I figured that would pass once I'd gotten them properly worn in.

Several pancakes flopped their way onto my plate followed by an unhealthily large pat of butter and quantity of syrup to help block the burnt aftertaste that they always seemed to accrue when Mom made them from instant mix. Quinn continued her constant litany, but I did my best to tune it out as I shoveled the food down as quickly as possible without puking.

I was about to stand back up and finish with a few last bits of packing I had to do when I heard Mom lightly clear her throat. I looked up to see, to my surprise, real concern shining through her eyes. It was something I had seen on other occasions, when she could manage to set her career aside long enough to be a real mother, but for at least several months it had been largely absent. It made me feel uncomfortable, and I considered going on my way anyway, but she placed a hand across my wrist, effectively trapping me.

"Dear," she said, "are you sure you want to do this? After the accident . . . "

I rolled my eyes and gently extricated my hand from hers. "I'll be fine, Mom," I assured her, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. I was already quite tired of having the same conversation over and over again.

The accident in question had happened a few months previous. I had been having problem with some old memories that had come popping up, I had tried talking to my parent about it, and . . . to be honest, I had gone a little crazy when they told me what had happened. In what certainly didn't seem like a rash move at the time, I stalked away, jumped into Mom's SUV, and set out on a rain-slick road in the middle of the night while talking on a cellphone.

I had been intending to meet up with my boyfriend at the time, who was with his family up at the Cove that night, but I never made it. Instead, I found myself unexpectedly on the side of the road after just barely avoiding taking part in a multi-car pileup.

I was physically unhurt but extremely rattled by the incident. I had never been a particularly good driver before, and even though I had managed to get the SUV back home afterward, my confidence was still completely shot. I'd been building it back up bit by bit in the intervening months, however, and I soon found myself continually having to remind Mom that making the trip to Boston by car was part of my own self-administered therapy.

And on the day of my departure, I was finally sick of reminding her. I stood up from the table without another word, put my dishes in the sink, and went upstairs to pack the last of my bags.

The thick, padded walls of my room enveloped me once again, helping to settle my jangled nerves. Reaching into the closet, I pulled out a small duffel bag and started collecting various odds and ends with which to fill it. The bulk of my belongings - clothing, notebooks, computer, and so forth - were already stashed away in the car, so all that was left was an array of various toiletries, a couple of books I had spent part of the previous night reading, my night shirt and shorts, and the like.

The last thing to go in was a large bottle of ibuprofen from my nightstand. I popped the couple of pills that I had removed from the container first into my mouth, zipped up the bag, and carried it downstairs.

The doorbell rang just as I hit the last step. I froze there momentarily, then glanced back across the living room to the kitchen before deciding what the hell. So much for slipping away unnoticed. With a resigned sigh, I made the short trip over to the door and opened it to find Jane standing on the other side.

"Hey, _amiga_," she said, then looked down at the bag in my hand. "Guess it's about that time."

"Yah," I returned uncomfortably. "Sorry. I meant to call you."

She gave me one of her wry smiles. "Uh-huh. Good thing I had my spies out and about or you would have gotten away with your dastardly plan of not saying bye."

"Spies?"

"Summer's making one of her rare visits," Jane told me as she pointed at a clump of bushes on the other side of the street. I could just make out two small figures trying to hide amongst the leaves. "Her kids just happen to be cheap but competent and reliable lookouts. They'll make some mob boss very happy some day."

Despite myself, I had to smile at that. Jane could always do that to me, make me feel at least a little bit better no matter how down I got.

"And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn't been for those meddling kids," I quipped. "I admit defeat. I was trying to sneak out and you caught me. Now what?"

"Now we hug, then we say we'll see each other in the spring and that we'll call each other every day and all that sappy nonsense."

I raised an eyebrow. "Really? How . . . pedestrian."

"And then I help you leave Lawndale under cover of night, making sure my prying eyes are the only ones to see your hasty escape," she finished.

"Hmm. Very good. I accept your proposal," I said with mock gravity and allowed myself to be hugged ever-so-briefly. Naturally this was accompanied by immature giggles from the bush bandits.

"Bye, Daria," Jane said airily as she walked me to the car. "See you in the spring. I'll call every day. Swerve a lot and run into things. And now if you'll excuse me, I've got a couple of rugrats I've got to bribe into complete silence."

She waved and crossed the street, zeroing in on the occupied bushes. I watched her for a second, then threw my last bag into the back seat with the others, settled into the driver's seat, and set my forehead against the steering wheel.

It wasn't that I hadn't wanted to see Jane one last time before heading out. Or my family, for that matter. It was just that I felt as if I'd already been saying goodbye for the past couple of months since graduation, and I couldn't really stand for it to go on any longer. Long goodbyes were bad enough. Never-ending ones were a pain in the ass.

The steering wheel felt almost blisteringly hot against my skin, but I ignored it. As depressed as I was feeling, I still felt lucky just to have Dad's car for the trip. It could burn its way through my entire skull if it wanted.

In fact, I felt pretty lucky about a lot of things he and Mom had done for me lately. I had originally planned on living in a dorm on campus once I'd gotten up to Raft, but they had dropped a serious chunk of change in order to get me an apartment and pay the rent and utilities up for two months to give me some time to find a part time job and some roommates. Where exactly they had gotten that money and why they had decided to spend it on me I still didn't know, but it almost seemed to me as if they were feeling guilty about something.

I wasn't particularly of a mind to question it.

The passenger side door opened and slammed shut, startling me. I looked over to see Quinn strapping on her seat belt and looking far too chipper for my tastes. Once she had finished snapping the buckle down, she looked at me with mixed bemusement and consternation.

"_Da_-ria, you didn't _really_ think you were going to get away without taking _me_, did you?" she asked.

I frowned deeply and grumbled, "A girl can dream, can't she?"

"Like I'd miss out on going to _Boston!_" she squeed. "I mean, I know it's full of all that icky history and those baked beans, right, and it's not like Baltimore isn't great . . . but it's still _Boston!_ And Mom and Dad said you _had_ to take me, and my bags are already in the back anyway!" Her tone became hideously offended. "You were going to drive off with my _stuff!_ How rude."

I muttered uncomplimentary things under my breath, but once again I resigned myself to my fate. Our parents had indeed given Quinn permission to visit Boston for a couple of days and had pressured me into looking after her during that time. It was to be considered one of my repayments for the generosity that they had shown me, and I was already starting to think it was too high a price.

Turning the car over and putting it in drive, I carefully pulled out onto the road. Nothing immediately terrible happened, so I pressed down further on the accelerator and got us underway. I waved at Jane as we passed by, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Quinn waving at Mom and Dad, who were standing at the living room window and watching us leave.

They and the house disappeared behind us. Eventually Lawndale did the same, though not before we passed by a handful of easily familiar landmarks. The Pizza Palace. The high school. All places that, if I ever saw them again, it wouldn't be for months at the very least, perhaps even years.

It felt strange that I might miss them.

Baltimore quickly loomed overhead. Traffic was surprisingly decent and we made good time. Within just a short while, we were on Highway 40, then from there switched over to I-95 heading east out of the city. Eventually we were out of the urban jungle and on the open road.

It felt like leaving Highland all over again, stripping free of everything that had held me back and moving forward into something that maybe, just maybe, might hold something better.

* * *

I was in hell.

It was the only possible conclusion. Normal earthly bounds would not be physically capable of allowing so much anguish to be visited upon a single person, therefore I could only imagine that I had slipped the bonds of a normal, indifferent plane of existence and had descended into one that actively hated me and wished me harm.

"_With a taste of your lips, I'm on a ride . . . you're toxic, I'm slipping under! With a taste of poison paradise . . . I'm addicted to you, don't you know that you're toxic?_"

At the very least I could console myself with the fact that the song Quinn was belting out at the top of her nasal high-pitched voice was one of Spears' better hits. Though perhaps "better" was a bit of an overstatement. "More tolerable" would be closer to the mark, but Quinn single-handedly managed to sink it down to "potentially lethal exposure" levels.

Which, I supposed, was appropriate given the title. Still, it had to stop. Reaching out nervously, I hit the power button on the radio and slapped my hand back to the steering wheel at the 2 position. Quinn slowly trailed off as she realized her accompaniment had disappeared, then glared huffily at me.

"Hey, sis," I said quickly to cut off whatever it was she had been about to say. "What do you say to stopping somewhere for some snacks?"

Her lip curled in disgust. "You mean, like, a convenience store or something?" she asked. "Ew! Do you know how many calories are in that stuff?"

"They've got granola bars-"

"Yah, sure, that've been sitting in the junk food vibe for God knows how long! Maybe we can find, like, an organic deli or something . . . "

We stopped at a grocery store at the next town, and though the deli inside probably wasn't organic, Quinn didn't turn her nose up too far at the salad they provided. I grabbed a chicken sandwich for myself at the counter, then added in some chips, candy bars, and soda on the way out.

"Could we please . . . _not?_" I nearly begged when Quinn reached for the radio. We had just finished eating and were on the road again, but I wasn't quite done resting my ears. "I'm just . . . trying to concentrate on the road," I explained when I saw the pouty face start to make its appearance, "and all that noise is a little distracting."

The pout softened into a look of genuine concern as Quinn patted my shoulder. "Alright," she said. "Sorry."

"Um. That's okay," I mumbled, disconcerted at the sudden show of affection. The cab of the car fell into silence as I put my full concentration back on the road.

My sister and I had always been something of total opposites. Where I was dour and realistic, she was bubbly and had her head in the clouds. She had always been outgoing and a bit scatterbrained while I was introverted and focused. Obsessed with her looks versus not really giving a damn. She tall, I short. And so on.

This, of course, had often led to a number of altercations between us, when our opposing viewpoints came to a head and neither of us would back down. Saying that we were antagonistic toward each other just like any other siblings would probably count as being charitable. Sometimes, we were downright nasty mean.

It was not a fact of which we were unaware by any means. But it wasn't until we saw our mother and her sisters going at each other like insane tigers one day that we realized that it couldn't go on. Even Aunt Amy, who I had started to idolize quite a bit, had joined into that fray, making things worse when I had expected her to make them better. It was a vision of the future that neither I nor Quinn wanted to see repeated, so since then we had been trying our best to actually get along.

Seeing Quinn actually feeling sympathy for me had still been a bit of a jolt, however. It made me wonder if leaving her behind would prove detrimental to our mutual project of mending fences. As much as I was looking forward to spending time away from her, I couldn't help but see her going back to Lawndale in a few days and then us meeting again years later only to end up trying to chew each other's heads off like Mom and Aunt Rita so often tried to do.

I shook my head to try and clear the image away, then shook it again when I realized I was starting to feel a little run down. The nightmare in the kitchen hadn't been the only one I'd suffered as of late. Ever since the accident, I'd been having bad dreams almost every night, and the lack of sleep seemed to finally be catching up with me. Naturally it had to happen right in the middle of a several hour long road trip.

Quinn apparently noticed my declining state of wakefulness and plucked at my shirt sleeve. "Hey, Daria? Are you okay?"

I nodded while rubbing at my eyes to tear away a few more of the cobwebs. "Yah, fine," I told her. "I think I just need some more caffeine in me."

"I can take over driving for a while if you want to get some rest," Quinn said as she reached back to grab me a drink.

"I dunno. The last time I let you drive, we ended up penniless out in the middle of nowhere, victims of a cowboy hitchhiker-slash-moocher." I cracked open the soda and took a few swallows, keeping my eyes firmly on the road ahead of us the whole time. "I've got this. Don't worry."

"Well . . . okay," she said, sounding unsure. "I think I'm gonna take a little nap, then. Just wake me if you change your mind."

"Sure."

I took another chug of my drink as Quinn grabbed her jacket from the back seat to use as a pillow. A few minutes later, her breathing became slow and steady. I envied her the ability to fall asleep so quickly until I realized that she probably had practice from taking several "beauty naps" throughout the day.

The interstate stretched out ahead of me flat, grey, and boring. I rolled along uneasily with the traffic, staying in the slow lane and going just fast enough to stay out of everyone's way. I settled into the routine of just driving until I was finally doing it by second nature. That along with the peace and quiet calmed my nerves and started making me optimistic about finally getting over my overall fear of driving. I even considered relinquishing some control by setting the car to cruise control.

Time passed, and the dividing lines seemed rather fascinating to me. I found myself watching them slide by almost as if in slow motion, then suddenly speeding up into a blur of white. I wanted to count them, to see exactly how many stripes there were between where I was and where I was going.

I was dimly aware that I was succumbing to highway hypnosis, but it was just too hard to fight . . .

"_DARIA!_"

I snapped out of my trance and spun the wheel wildly, taking the car off the shoulder of the road for a brief moment. Panicking, I turned back the other way and veered all the way into one of the oncoming lanes before finally regaining control. The second I saw a place to pull over, I did so, turning in and slamming on the brakes hard enough to leave squealing skid marks.

My hands clenched the steering wheel so tight that I could see my knuckles turning white. Sweat poured down my forehead, stinging my wide eyes and dripping away from my bared teeth. My chest burned from the breaths I was heaving out over and over again.

I collected myself piece by piece until the general picture that was Daria was mostly all there again. Wiping at the sweat on my face, I looked over and visually checked Quinn, who was looking out the windshield in shock.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Yah, fine," she replied distantly. "Where the heck are we?"

Following her gaze, I could see that we had pulled onto what looked to be an observation deck overlooking a deep valley. There were several parking spaces, but ours appeared to be the only car there, and the road next to us seemed similarly unoccupied. A short way behind us, I could see a small building marked as housing restrooms. None of it was familiar to me in the least.

More disconcerting than not knowing our location, however, was the fact that what was supposed to have been early afternoon had apparently turned into mid-evening somewhere along the way. I checked my watch and felt shocked to see that it was several hours past when we should have arrived at our destination.

"I . . . don't know," I told Quinn. "I think I may have zoned out a little. We must have missed Boston."

"_'Missed Boston'?_" she repeated incredulously. "I know I got, like, a D in Geography, but I'm pretty sure Boston is a little big to _miss!_"

I rubbed the bridge of my nose under my glasses. "We can't be too far past it," I said, almost convincing myself. "Let's just . . . figure out where we are so we can figure out how to get back, okay?"

The engine rumbled to a stop as I turned and removed the key, dropping us into a slightly eerie silence. Quinn and I both stepped out of the car. The dual slam of our doors echoed back to us, causing us to jump and look around for a second, then smile sheepishly at each other.

Quinn walked over to the edge of the deck as I looked around. There didn't appear to be anything past the restrooms, but the view in front of the car was slightly more promising. A large billboard for a place called "Pete's Bowl-O-Rama" sat up above the far end of the deck, which didn't help much at all, but another smaller sign sitting by a set of stairs proudly pointed out "Toluca Lake". I had never heard of it before, but it was a start.

Several yards beyond the edge of the observation deck sat a set of tunnels through which the road passed at a slight decline. In the dim light I could just make out two road signs mounted above the entrance, both giving distances to the nearby towns and a national park. I was heartened to see that the closest listed, Paleville, was only ten miles away.

Walking over to stand next to Quinn, I looked down to see a path winding down the cliff side from the stairs I had noted earlier. Then I looked up and felt my breath catch in my throat.

The lake spread out before us, looking beautiful and calm as it reflected the light of a half-moon. Trees lined the steep slope of the cliff, then ran all the way up to the water's edge. A gentle wind pushed the clean, fresh smell of water and leaves our way. Off in the distance, I could see the dark, hulking shape of the lake's far bank, dotted with small lights. Every few seconds, a particularly bright light would pop into existence near the lake's edge, swish through the air above the water, and then wink back out once it had reached the other side.

It was like a painting come to life.

"Like, _wow_," Quinn said quietly.

"Wow," I concurred. We stood watching the lighthouse whirl in the distance for a few more minutes before I cleared my throat and finally tore my eyes away from the vista before us.

"We just have to find an exit to that town over there," I said. "We'll gas up and get some directions, then we'll be back on our way. Okay?"

"Sure," Quinn said with a nod.

Back in the car, I switched on the headlights and pulled back out onto the road. Paleville didn't sound even slightly familiar, but I could only hope that we would be able to find someone there who could help us.

The darkness of the tunnel pulled us in but was quickly alleviated by the lamps set in the concrete overhead. The yellow glow gave everything a sort of jaundiced look, as if we, the car, and the road itself had all gotten food poisoning. It was a rather dispiriting look, but the gloomy mood it inspired was lifted slightly when another vehicle passed us going the other way. Being lost was bad enough without being alone, and even that brief bit of evidence that there were other people around was welcome.

A few minutes later we emerged from the other side of the tunnel, where I was surprised to see what appeared to be a small town just ahead of us. More perplexing, we passed by a large, old-fashioned wooden sign that said "Welcome to Silent Hill" on it in stark, imposing letters. Strangely, it simultaneously looked inviting and forbidding at the same time.

Catching my confused expression, Quinn asked me what was wrong.

"I'm not sure," I told her. "The sign earlier said Paleville was the closest town, and there was a listing for _Old_ Silent Hill, whatever that means, but this is too early for either of them."

"Huh. Maybe it was an old sign?" she suggested. "And isn't Silent Hill in, like, West Virginia anyway?"

"And here I thought you got a D in Geography," I said, then shrugged. "In any case, I'll take help earlier rather than later if we can get it."

When we reached the first of the buildings, I slowed down so we could get a good look at everything as we passed. Closer up, I could see that what I had thought was a small town didn't even seem to be quite that. The blocks were small and filled with several important buildings like the fire station and clinic all in close proximity. I had only passed a few streets before it looked as if I were reaching the end of the line.

I was just about to give up and speed along when the bright lights of a gas station caught my attention. Quinn gave her own little cheer at the sight as I pulled in next to one of the pumps.

"I suppose it would be too much to ask you to pump the gas?" I asked, already anticipating the yuck face I got in return.

"And get gas fumes all over my hands and shirt? No amount of deodorizer can get that stuff out, Daria," she said ominously. "_None_."

"Just thought I'd try. Don't go wandering off, okay?"

"Alright, what_ever!_ This place is, like, Podunk Central. Like I'd even want to go anywhere here!"

Our ritual of verbal sparring for that encounter complete, I shut the door and walked over to the small station and stepped inside, setting off a dismal door chime in the process. A wiry looking man in a baseball cap wandered in from the backroom, stood behind the cash register, and looked at me blankly.

"Um. Hello," I said. "I'd like to get some gas and some directions, if that's at all possible."

The man's jaw moved slightly to the side, then begrudgingly opened to say, "Ayuh."

"Oh. Great! So, I'll just be filling the tank, and if you could just point me toward Boston, that'd be great."

Something in the man's eyes moved to the opposite side of his jaw, almost as if the two brain cells encrusted on the inside of his skull had suddenly lit a fire. He leaned forward and took the money I proffered to him, then appeared almost thoughtful for a few seconds.

"Boston . . . 'Chusetts?" he asked slowly.

"Yyyyyyyyyyes," I answered, suddenly feeling very unsure of myself. "That would be the one."

"Hmmm." He scratched at his stubble, producing a sound much like that of sandpaper rubbing against itself. "Long drive there, missy. Might be better just to head up to Portland."

"Portland . . . _Maine?_" I asked in shock.

He smiled and gave me a wink. "Ayuh," he said. "That'd be the one."

I stared at him with my jaw hanging open at the sudden surreality of the situation. He couldn't be right. But a quick, horrified glance over at the rack of maps sitting on the counter either proved him right or showed his dedication to the practical joke. Sitting square between maps of the United States and Canada were several dedicated to the highways and byways of Maine, the Pine Tree State.

I took off my glasses and rubbed a hand down my face, but when I looked again, the maps were still there, almost as if they were mocking me. I grabbed one up and gestured at the clerk with it, and he simply nodded a go-ahead. Running my finger along the side of the map, I tore away the adhesive circle holding it closed and spread it out full on the counter.

Sure enough, I quickly found Silent Hill on the index and used it to find the town on the main part of the map. I groaned with frustration.

"So wait, why does the sign up the road say 'Paleville' and 'Old Silent Hill'?" I asked.

"They ain't changed that sign in a dog's age," he said dismissively. "Paleville's just the north part of town, up on the other side of the lake. This part's called South Vale. It's all Silent Hill, though."

The side of my mouth twitched slightly. "That seems . . . needlessly complicated."

"Ayuh," he said simply.

I fumed silently as I considered my options. Getting back on the road and heading straight for Boston immediately jumped to mind, but it was already evening, and even with my impromptu nap I could still feel fatigue plucking at the edges of my consciousness. Letting Quinn drive while I slept wasn't something I felt comfortable doing, lest we ended up with another hitchhiker or stopping at every boutique along the way.

With a long sigh, I slumped my shoulders and jerked my thumb over my shoulder. "I saw a motel on the other end of the block, right?" I asked.

"Oh, ayuh," he confirmed, eyes brightening. "Jack's Inn. Good place."

"Okay, thanks," I said, then folded the map, turned, and shuffled out the door. Quinn was sitting half out of the car, waiting for me and filing her nails.

"Well?"

"We're in Maine," I told her, feeling some dark satisfaction in seeing my own shocked expression mirrored on her face.

"_Maine?_ That's like-" she started, then did some mental calculation before finishing, "-like, five whole states away!"

"Two," I corrected automatically. "But even if it was just one state, we're not going to be able to make it to Boston tonight, so we're going to have to stay here overnight. Is that okay?"

Quinn stuck her lower lip out and crossed her arms. "_Fine_," she said. "But you're taking me for four extra shopping hours the first day to make up for lost time!"

"Agreed," I said, rolling my eyes as I pulled the nozzle from the pump and shoved it into the car's tank.

* * *

The distance back to the inn was short enough that I felt like it would have saved time and gas if we had just pushed the car over to the parking lot. Still, that was just a small irritation on the day's long list of major problems.

The interior of the motel's office was very rustic. Almost quaint. It was a collection of earth tones all chewed up and spat back out on old-fashioned architecture. I half expected to look over and see a stuffed grizzly bear terrorizing the rest of the room from its dusty corner, but it seemed that the owners had at least enough taste to know when to quit.

Instead, the walls were lined with a few paintings, the kind one would expect of local budding artists trying to emulate their favorite Renaissance painter when they weren't ripping off Homer Winslow. A slight pang hit me unexpectedly as I realized I was standing there waiting for Jane to chime in with her own snarky comment about the talents on display, but the feeling was quickly replaced by curiosity when one of the pictures happened to catch my eye.

I took a few hesitant steps forward, squinting at the painting as I tried to figure it out. There was something familiar about the scene it depicted. Something about the blues, the reds, the greys. Something about the people. Something about the metal and the fire . . .

"Can I help you?"

Startled, I spun around to see that the clerk was standing at the counter, looking back at me expectantly. Unlike his counterpart down the road, this man - "Eric", according to his name tag - appeared to be much cleaner and meticulous. Certainly better shaven, having a bare face save for his plucked eyebrows and pencil-thin mustache. He still had some of the New England accent, however, which in my head put itself at odds with his appearance, like a proper gent in a tuxedo suddenly letting loose with a Texan drawl.

"Yes," I said, collecting myself. "I need a room, please. Two beds, if you have it."

He sucked air through his teeth as he ran a finger across the registry. "Sorry, miss, only single beds left. I can get you two rooms, if you'd prefer."

Mentally gauging my money reserves, I figured that I could do it, but it hardly seemed worth the hassle. "No, just the single is fine," I told him.

"If you'll sign in here," he said, turning the registry my way, indicating a line, and handing me a pen. "And how long will you be staying with us?"

"Just tonight," I replied as I filled out the required information. "I'm just passing through."

"Not a tourist then, eh?" he asked, his voice suddenly taking on a guarded quality.

I shook my head. "No," I said. "Do you get a lot of tourists around here?"

"A few. We've got the amusement park, tours on the lake, that sort of thing. Always seems to be fewer and fewer folk coming around every year, though. There've been a few . . . disappearances over the years. Scares off business."

"Hmm," I murmured, finishing with the registry. "So does telling people about disappearances around town."

As he took my payment for the room and handed me a key, his expression was one of genuine concern. "Just be careful, miss," he intoned deeply. "That's all I'm saying."

"Right. Thanks."

As I left I glanced over at the paintings hung along the wall, but not a single one seemed to portray the scene I had been looking at earlier. It was yet another example of my need for normal, natural sleep, it seemed, so I put it out of my mind and moved the car over to our assigned room. Quinn and I grabbed a couple of bags each and headed inside.

The decor of the room matched that of the office, giving the sense that we had stepped into an old Colonial-style house rather than a cheap motel room. I liked it in a way, but given the rest of the weirdness that had pervaded most of the day, I would have almost preferred the more stereotypical array of clashing colors that would have been very modern in the late 70's.

Quinn took in the room with the serious and trained eye of a fashionista, then happily chirped "I like it!" before flouncing off toward the bathroom.

Massive exhaustion hit me all at once the moment I laid eyes on the bed. I barely managed the energy required to strip off my boots, jeans, and t-shirt so I could slip on my night clothes before flopping down on the mattress. I was half-dead to the world by the time Quinn emerged from the bathroom, her pre-bed grooming ritual complete, and slipped under the covers next to me.

I must have started dreaming right around that same time because I distinctly felt Quinn embrace me in a tight, sisterly hug before turning over and shutting off the light.


	3. World of Fog

I awoke to-

No.

Something's different.

I awake to find myself alone in the bed. I don't have to look over to determine this. I can feel it almost instinctively. I'm prepared to write it off as nerves, figuring that Quinn must have gotten up for a glass of water or to use the toilet, but there's a paranoid whisper in my ear that's telling me that I'm wrong, an edge of unease that I can't seem to shake.

Sitting up in the bed, I see that sure enough, Quinn's side is empty. Strangely, the covers don't even look like they've been moved from their perfectly-angular motel-regulation pre-guest configuration, as if Quinn had never been there at all and somehow I didn't manage to pull them out of joint myself during the night.

The quality of the light in the room is odd, I notice as I stand up and put on my glasses. I'm not sure exactly how to explain it, but things seem . . . dim? Almost washed out, as if some of the color has been leeched away by some chromatic thief.

"Quinn?"

My voice sounds shaky, and I realize that I'm scared. This is profoundly disturbing to me. Not so much that I'm frightened - though that is certainly starting to feed on itself in geometric fashion as actively noticing that I'm frightened is scaring me - but more the fact that I feel like I've only just rediscovered some measure of self-awareness that I hadn't realized I'd lost.

_Focus._

I walk over to the other side of the bed. Quinn's bags are still there, and unlike the bed they appear to have been opened and their contents used. So she was here, and I'm not losing my mind.

I think.

The bathroom is empty and there's nothing under the bed, which leaves only one other option. I open the front door and lean out to call her name again, but my voice freezes in my throat and then dies as a painful gurgle.

Fog. Fog everywhere. Roiling in thick, silvery clouds, it obscures everything beyond just a few feet. The dark silhouette of the car sits just beyond the edge of the walkway running along the front of the building, but I can't make out anything but the most basic details. Everything past that is a featureless white bordering on grey, ever-shifting yet impenetrable.

"Oh . . . _shit_."

No, I tell myself. No no no. Get it together, Daria. This isn't your dream come to life. It's just fog. Normal, everyday fog. It happens sometimes. This isn't a sign of something deeper, it's just a coincidence.

A very weird and extremely creepy coincidence.

Clearing my throat and forcing it to work again, I call out Quinn's name. The only answer I get is the echo in the motel's small, mostly enclosed parking lot. I try to shake off the strange feeling that's settling over me and take a few tentative steps out into the fog to look around.

No demon squirrels attack me. No harpy-like creatures cracking bones nearby. The car lurches into clarity as I step out from under the overhang and hold my hands out to the sky. Small specks appear on my glasses and palms as a light drizzle falls down around me. There is a chill in the air, aided by the tiny rain droplets, and my skin pimples up like goose flesh.

"Quinn?" I try again, still to no avail. No one answers, not even one of the people in the neighboring rooms asking me if I need help or telling me to shut up, they're trying to sleep. Everything is quiet.

I wipe my hand across the driver's side window of the car and peer in, but there is a distinct lack of sister within. The slim chance that I might find her curled up fast asleep in the back seat is dashed, but I do see my jacket sitting there amongst the other luggage, waiting for me.

Shivers run down my entire body as the chill goes from slightly uncomfortable to feeling as if I've been dunked into a huge bucket of ice water. Wrapping my arms around myself, I jog back into the room and shut the door behind me. Almost as an afterthought I lock it as well and feel somewhat safer for it.

My mind keeps wanting to jump to that dream again, but I grab it firmly and tell it _no_. Something strange is definitely going on, but I am most certainly awake and this is no dream. I feel sure that there will be some sort of good explanation for everything, and I should probably figure out what it is.

So my next step is, if she can't hear me calling out with just my voice, try calling her with a phone. As I search the recesses of my memory for the digits of Quinn's cellphone, I pick up the handset of the motel phone and get ready to start dialing. Then I let my jaw go slack momentarily and put the handset back down when I notice the pink cell sitting right next to the base.

Of course. It couldn't have possibly been that easy. And now I'm left with basically two choices. I either stay and wait for her to come back on her own, or I go and try to actively seek her out.

My initial reaction is to take the first option, but that unsettling feeling of paranoia grips my heart once again, and the clerk's warnings about disappearances echoes through my head, making me feel physically ill. I simply can't shake the feeling that something bad has happened and that just sitting on my hands until it resolves itself won't end in my or Quinn's favor, so waiting is really no option at all.

And anyway, I try to convince myself, this part of Silent Hill isn't that big from what I saw last night. She can't have gotten far and it won't take too long to look around, so I might as well get out and about.

But first, I have to get dressed.

Making my way to the bathroom, I peel off my damp clothes and let them squish to the ground. I set my glasses on the sink and leave the door open so I can hear any knocking coming from outside. After wiping myself down with one of the clean towels sitting on a rack above the sink, I step back out and start pulling clean clothes from one of my bags. Underwear, sports bra, black t-shirt, blue jeans, and white socks. Add my glasses and boots and we have ourselves a winner.

I stuff my wallet in one front pocket - I'm not really a purse kinda gal - and then take a moment to consider before picking up Quinn's cell and jamming it in the other. I'm not really a mobile phone kinda gal, either, and actively resisted getting one of my own. The only ones I've ever had were forced on me by my parents or just temporary loaners for emergencies. But strangely, I have to admit that having the small communications device sitting at the front of my hip feels strangely comforting. If things get worse, I can always try calling the cops for help.

Or, well, try calling _some_one, anyway. Maybe it's just my anti-authoritarian streak, but the police simply rub me the wrong way.

But enough of that, time to go. I grab the keys to the car and the room, close the door behind me, and lock it. The fog is still chokingly thick, but as I step up to the car I find that the drizzle has lightened up to almost nothing. It still tries its level best to sink through my shirt's thin fabric to get at my flesh, but quickly finds itself stymied as I fish my emerald green jacket out of the back seat and throw it on.

Finally fully attired, I slam the car door shut and stalk across the parking lot, one hand over my glasses to keep them from getting too dewy from the rain. The office edifice looms ahead of me, so I pick up the pace, nearly slipping in a puddle in my haste.

I look down to make sure I don't step in any more slick spots, then slow to a stop when I see that I'm walking in a patch of red liquid that's been smeared across the asphalt. Glancing ahead and then over my shoulder, I can see that it stretches from the general direction of the lot's exit, curves around, and ends at the office door, which I now notice is sitting wide open.

My teeth threaten to chatter, but I clamp them down tight, suddenly afraid to make any kind of noise. I try to convince myself that I'm standing in red paint, and that they must have tipped some over while trying to give the place a more lively palette. I know that I'm standing in blood, a great deal of it, and I don't know if I still have the nerve to keep walking forward.

Finally, the thought that someone might be injured propels me to action. I may be a disaffected, disillusioned, anti-social super-cynical type, but I like to think that I'm not too horribly desensitized to the suffering of others when it comes to real, physical injury. Being careful not to add my own busted head to the situation, I make my way across the slick ground and cautiously step into the office.

It's empty. Or at least it looks empty. I'll have to do a thorough search to be sure, but a quick voice check might be in order. I dig around in my memory for a few seconds before it finally gives up the clerk's name from last night.

"Eric?" I call. "Anybody?"

A ludicrous image of myself wandering around doing nothing but yelling names all day passes through my head. I stifle the nervous giggle this elicits and step further inside, calling out again. Just like Quinn, the motel clerk stubbornly refuses to answer, probably by not being anywhere in the vicinity.

I'm really starting to wish I could join them in being somewhere else entirely.

The blood trail doesn't extend into the building, cutting off precisely at the door frame. The carpet still squishes under my boots, however, as it seems to be covered in a thin layer of dew from the encroaching fog. The tiny droplets suspended on the rusty brown fabric shine in the dim light coming through the door and windows, showing that they only extend a few yards in and that no one has walked this way recently. In contrast, my footsteps are clearly marked behind me as I venture further in with a bit more confidence.

My hand hovers over the service bell for a few seconds before I slap down, causing it to peal out a loud _ding!_ As I stand there waiting for an answer, I notice a small stack of pamphlets sitting on the counter. Idly I pick one up and unfold it to find that it is, in fact, a simplified tourist map of the South Vale area with many of its major attractions, important buildings, and various businesses listed prominently.

My interest becomes piqued when I see a police station near the very southern edge of town. Despite my disdain for authority, I can now see that things may have gone way beyond what I can handle myself, and thanks to their positioning I can still work my way back and forth across the area and look for Quinn on my own before stopping by the station without too much hassle.

Deciding that no one is going to be answering the bell after all, I grab a red marker from a jar of pens sitting on the counter and use it to circle the police station. I then fold the map, slip it in my jacket pocket, and step outside just in time for the air to be pierced by the sound of screeching metal.

I clasp my hands to my ears but the sound is so loud and piercing that it gets through, it tunnels its way between my fingers and drills into my eardrums until it's in my skull, reverberating every single section of my cranium all at once, it's like fingernails on a chalkboard and it won't stop it won't stop and my own scream of pain is keening just loud enough for me to hear over the noise and I'm just about to black out when all of a sudden it stops only to be replaced by a massive _**POOM!**_

My knees try to buckle, causing me to stagger a moment. I try to release a huge breath in relief, but it comes out as another scream as chunks of metal suddenly start falling out of the sky. Heavy pieces crash to the ground while smaller ones fly past and strike the wall behind me.

I stand as still as I can, covering my head with my hands protectively and waiting for the strange storm to stop. Amidst the sound of dropping metal, I can hear something slicing through the air rapidly and repeatedly until it passes straight by me and ends with a sharp _thack!_ I let out a small squeak of surprise as chunks of the office wall suddenly hit me and bounce off the back of my jacket.

Tentatively, I pull my arms down and look over my shoulder to see a dual headed tire iron with the prying end embedded in the brick. My gut rumbles dangerously at me when I see that it was just at the right height to have cracked straight through my skull. If it had hit just one foot to the side . . .

I look at the devastation surrounding me, and it slowly dawns on me that I recognize exactly what I'm looking at. I want to disbelieve at first, but there's a section of the back end right there in front of me, most of the Maryland license plate still attached. I have no idea how it possibly could have happened, but Dad's car has exploded. And not in the Hollywood fiery kaboom sense of exploded, but more like when the dumber kids back in Highland used to blow up frogs with their bicycle pumps.

Wherever I end up going to look for Quinn, I guess I'm sure as hell not going to be driving there.

This is real. I can't escape it. I know it's real. I can see the edges of twisted, torn metal clearly. I can smell the tinge of oil, gas, and other motor fluids in the air. My ears are still ringing a little from the noise. There is absolutely no reason for the car to have exploded like a balloon filled with too much air, but regardless this seems like a pretty damn realistic aftermath of just that to me.

But if its real, how _did_ the car explode? _Why_ would it explode? My brain is so full of questions now, trying to figure out blood smears, summer fog, missing motel clerks, missing sisters. I don't think I can handle one more weird thing today.

That was, of course, the worst possible thing for me to have thought. I should really know better.

I hear something out in the fog, tapping. I turn my head to look, but I still can't see more than a few yards away. As it gets closer, I can hear scraping as well. The sounds are intermittent, one after the other.

Tap tap scrape. Tap tap scrape.

All of the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up all at once. The ringing in my ears has subsided, allowing me to hear the hollow, echoing quality the noises take on as they slowly enter the enclosed lot.

Tap tap scrape. Tap tap scrape.

It stops momentarily, and I think I can see an outline. It's thin, whatever it is. Incredibly thin. It has a head and a torso, but its limbs are too indistinct to make out. It might have four legs, or it might only have two. But with the way things have been going, I find that I'm not ready to put anything out of the realm of possibility.

The thing swings its head back and forth, making a moist smacking sound as it does so. In a way, it almost seems like an animal, snuffling the air and trying to get its bearings. It apparently decides that the area is worth investigating and starts walking again. It emerges gradually from the fog, and suddenly I'm glad I don't have any breakfast to heave up.

Whatever trust I might have had that the creature before me isn't a predator of some kind flies out the window the second I see the blood-stained blades. It has two of them, several feet long, and it's scraping them along the ground every couple of steps, using them almost like an old person uses a walker.

The worst part, however, is that it's not carrying these long, thin cutting tools. Somehow, the blades are a part of it, extending directly out of the flesh-covered wrists in place of hands.

It senses me. I don't know how because all it has on its head is a thin-lipped vertical mouth, twitching and squirming but never quite opening. But it knows I'm here. It turns on the bone pegs it has for feet and starts to circle me, first one way and then the other, testing my reactions to its presence.

And my initial reaction is that it's time to back away slowly and hope it loses interest. A small snag in this plan hits at the exact same time my back slaps against the wall.

I look to my left as see the door I had been aiming for. I look to my right and see the wrench end of the tire iron protruding directly over my shoulder. I am struck by sudden indecision as my fight or flight instinct kicks into overdrive with both sides pulling neck and neck when I suddenly remember something very, very important.

I still need to get out there and look for Quinn, and this thing is in my way.

I just wish I felt as brave as that sounded. As it is, my heart is threatening to pound out of my chest as I turn to grasp the steel tool and tug on it. I wiggle it as I pull, causing little chips of brick to fall out of the hole. It seems to be working, but the thing has stopped scraping back and forth and is hunkering down on all fours, looking for all the world like a cat about to pounce on a mouse.

And then it's up in the air, both blades pulled back and bearing down on me. I pull on the tire iron, pleading desperately for it to cooperate, please oh please, and it does so at the very last possible second, sending me stumbling away as the creature chops down right through the space I had just been occupying.

It swivels around on one of its legs without missing a beat and charges at me with astounding speed, both arms raised to skewer me where I stand. Still unsteady, I swing the tire iron wildly and feel it connect, driving both of the deadly arms to one side. This keeps me from being turned into a human shish kebab, but the creature's momentum is still enough for it to run into me bodily and take us both to the ground.

I shudder in revulsion as the thing squirms on top of me like a giant spider trying to right itself. I push it away and scramble to my feet, an act it seems to have some difficulty mimicking as its blades and pegs slip on the section of the blood-slick where it landed. Before it can fully recover, I step in and swing my weapon down with both hands, slamming it into the monster's thin torso with a satisfying crack. It falters but doesn't go down, so I deliver another blow to the back of its head. It flops to the ground and lies still, thick black bruises mottling its skin where I hit-

_Oh shit, it twitched!_

I haul off and kick the thing right in the side, sending it rolling across the ground. It nearly folds in half from the force of my boot, and this time when it comes to a stop, it stays stopped. I stand watching it for several long minutes, iron at the ready, just to make sure.

The second I decide I can relax, every single one of my nerves fray at the ends all at once. I lean over and put my hands on my knees as I try to take in several hyperventilating breaths. I just killed something. I've never really killed anything before. Not on purpose. I don't think I'm taking it very well.

Okay. Rationalize it, Daria. That's what you do best. Yes, I killed it, but it was in the process of trying to kill me at the time. So it was self-defense. And it's not like it was human. Hell, you don't know _what_ it was, but it was being all animalistic. It couldn't possibly have been all that intelligent. You didn't snuff out something sentient or sapient, surely. So it's okay. You're okay.

Finally calming down a little, I start to throw the tire iron down but quickly change my mind. This thing may have been just one of many. There could be different things out there as well, maybe even worse than this one, and I no longer have a car to hide in while I search. I'm going to need some kind of protection.

I slip the iron into one of the belt loops on my jeans and step over the gangly corpse on my way out of the parking lot. I'm going to find my sister and get the hell out of here.

* * *

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I automatically turn to my left. One of the first rules of searching for someone is to check places they're familiar with, and the only place that Quinn would know around here besides the inn would be the gas station. It's a long shot, of course, but it's all I've got to go on at the moment.

As I'm walking, I remember the cellphone sitting in my pocket and pull it out. It's yet another long shot, but I flip it open, turn it on, and wait for the logo to clear off the screen. I don't expect it to work, and I'm not disappointed. It registers a few bars, but it won't dial and all I can hear from the speaker is a slight hissing static.

I snap the phone shut and move to put it back in my pocket when it suddenly comes to life, making me nearly jump out of my skin. The sound is faint, but I recognize it as the tone Quinn set it to play for text messages, that series of four eerily modulating notes that sound like they're coming from a deflating synthesizer. It's one of the few things she's ever chosen that I ever liked as well, but under the current circumstances, it's extra creepy and sends a shiver down my spine.

The tone repeats, louder this time and getting even more so as it continues. I become so engrossed in trying to figure out what's happening that it almost makes me miss the return of the now horribly familiar _tap tap scrape_ echoing out from the fog.

Frantically I open the phone again and try to make it stop. It still doesn't register any calls or text messages, so there's nothing to answer. I open up a new line, but that just adds the grey noise of static, itself getting louder by the second. I grit my teeth and hold the phone up to shatter it on the ground when I suddenly remember the options, access them as quickly as my fumbling fingers will allow, and set the noisy machine on silent.

The tone cuts off abruptly, replaced by a soft whirring as it vibrates madly in my hand. I cast about fruitlessly for a place to hide as the tapping comes ever closer. I may have taken one of the creatures down already, but it was mostly luck. I don't want to have to face another one, so I do my best to flatten myself against the wall running along the sidewalk and hope that it just passes me by.

I see the thin shade scraping along the middle of the road, casting its suckling mouth back and forth. The hope that the one I killed had been the only one of its kind - some sort of twisted mutant, perhaps, unable to procreate with whatever species had originated it - disappears into the mist. I wonder if I have any hope of this one not noticing me where the other one did.

Can it taste me on the air? Can it sense the alternating vibrations of the cellphone? Can it see only movement? Can it hear my heart trying to jackknife its way out of my chest?

It jerks its head around suddenly. Whatever senses it may have, they have apparently zeroed in on something other than the frightened girl slowly pulling the tire iron from her belt loop. It lowers its torso almost to the ground, wiggles back and forth in preparation, then takes off like a shot, the rapid _taptaptaptaptap_ of its pegs receding into the distance.

Slowly I relax and peel myself away from the wall. Not too relaxed, however, as the notion of more than one of those things comes back to me. For all I know, they might have even been a mated pair or something, and I'm about to stumble onto a nest of smacking, hungry kiddos ready to slice me down into bite-sized chunks.

I suppose that if I'm going to get snacked on by the little bastards, I should at least know what their name is. And since there's no one else around to come up with a name, I guess it's up to me to give them one. The expediency they show when they feel like it brings "runners" immediately to mind, though some extremely nerdy part of my brain desperately wants to put "blade" in front of that.

I choose to ignore that impulse. "Runners" it is.

I'm suddenly reminded of the phone in my hand as the vibrations slow to a complete stop, and thinking back it seems that they had been slowing and becoming weaker as the runner had been getting farther down the road. In fact, the ringtone earlier had been getting stronger and stronger as the monster was approaching.

My brain, so quick to come up with a name for a bizarre nightmare thing just moment before, decides to chug for a minute on that thought. It might require some further experimentation, of course, despite my not wanting to get near another one of those things ever again, but it seems pretty obvious that the phone somehow picked up on the runner's presence. I just don't want to believe it, because that doesn't make any sense.

_**None** of this makes any damn sense!_ I berate myself. _So **make** it make sense!_

Hmm. I have to admit that I'm right. I slip my new early warning system back into my jacket pocket and resume my journey with a tiny bit more confidence. Whatever has happened to the world, the phone seems to be proof that there are still rules, even if those rules aren't the same as ones I've been used to. And I can work with that.

The gas station looks deserted. I am unsurprised. The only sign of any kind of activity that I can make out from a distance is what looks like a newspaper rack by the door that's been knocked over. Otherwise, there are no cars waiting at the pumps, all of the lights are out, and the only sound is the soft patter of drizzle coming down.

Despite this and the lack of activity from Quinn's phone, I proceed slowly onto the lot and get my tire iron in my hand. I've already had too many surprises this morning, and I've quickly grown tired of them. When I reach the windows of the store itself, I peer in, putting my hand over my eyes and trying to pierce the gloom. Nothing skitters out of the corners or comes scraping out of the back room as I watch, so I move over to the door, grip the bar in the center, and push.

It's unlocked, but there's no chime like there was last night. No thin man with sandpaper stubble comes out to stand and stare awkwardly at me. The door sighs closed behind me without any sort of fanfare, and I stand in the middle of the room for several long moments.

All of this is almost more unsettling than any of the alternatives.

"Quinn?" I finally call out. "Hello? Anybody home?"

As I wait for any kind of response, I look over at the aisles of chips, candy bars, and other junk food. Surprisingly I'm not hungry, but I know that I probably will be later. I might end up traipsing all about town with nothing but my own two feet to traipse about on, and as the old saying goes, a Daria traipses on her stomach.

I'm like 99% sure that's how it goes.

Since nothing immediately jumps out to tear me apart, I step over to the protein section. Thin packages of beef jerky in various flavors sit stacked next to pickled sausages, sticks of ham and cheese, and various other meaty snackums. Chips sit on the rack below, and above sit the peanuts, cashews, and various other salted and honey roasted goodies.

I blink several times to make sure I'm not just seeing things and then recoil in disgust. Somehow I failed to notice previously that the packages in front of me were moving, twitching ever so slightly just underneath the surface. Up close and personal, however, I can make out not only every creeping wiggle in detail but also exactly what's causing it. The clear sections of the nut bags show not nuts but maggots, dozens of them, all writhing within their plastic wrapper prisons.

That may just be the worst part. None of the packages have been opened. Every single one of them appear to be precisely factory sealed, as if they had all been shipped to the store with the eggs already inside, ready to hatch into maggots that would eventually displace the food entirely. Like it had been planned by all the various food companies ahead of time with malicious forethought.

Dry heaves hit me as I watch the horrifying squirming, so I turn to get away from the sight. And that, of course, is when I notice that on the other side of the store, laid out right between the shelves of auto supplies and the racks of medical supplies, is a human corpse.

My heaves are suddenly not so dry anymore.

I choke the bile back down my throat somehow, but the image of the man slumped against the far wall isn't pushed away quite so easily. Like the maggots, I somehow missed seeing him when I first glanced around the store, but now I can't tear my eyes away.

There isn't a question of whether or not he's dead. I'm not entirely certain how his corpse is managing to stay up without collapsing seeing as huge sections of his chest have been messily scooped out, rib sections and all. My mind flicks to an image of a runner standing over him, cutting into him without any attempt at surgical precision whatsoever. I pull out my mental remote control and flick it back off before the image starts moving in fully gory detail.

His uniform identifies him as a police officer of some kind, which pushes the idea of going to the cops for help back down a few notches on my priority meter. His hat is sitting low on his head, covering all of his face except his hanging lower jaw, leaving only a chin, lip, and row of teeth flecked with blood visible. Staring at this small portion of his face, I get the feeling that I really really don't want to see rest.

Despite this, I begin walking forward, approaching the body with slow, cautious steps. I would like nothing more than to run out the door and forget I ever saw this dead man, but I am compelled toward him for one very simple reason. I need his gun. It may not have done _him_ any good in the end, but if I'm going to stand any chance out on the monster-infested streets, I'll need more than just a beatin' stick.

As I get closer, I can see that while he was obviously a cop of some kind, his outfit isn't actually a uniform like I thought. The black pants are actually jeans, his hat is just a cowboy hat and not that of a sheriff, and while his jacket has police-related patches on it, it isn't really police issue. He looks like he was a deputy that liked to pretend he was still on the job even while off-duty. Married to his career and extremely dedicated to his spouse. A modern day Barney Fife in a way.

The writer in me is sad that I may never get to know his story.

His pistol is just barely visible, sticking out from underneath one side of his jacket. I reach out, tense in anticipation of the slightest vibration of my phone, and wrap the fingers of my free hand around the butt of the pistol. My other hand holds my iron high, ready to come down just in case the corpse tries anything funny. I flick the clasp on the shoulder holster, freeing the gun from its hold, and draw the weapon out without incident.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I slip the iron back into its loop and then give the pistol a closer look. It's a 9mm of some kind, but I'm not interested enough in the brand to bother reading the tiny engraved text on the side. I'm far more interested in making sure it will be of any use to me, so I pop the clip out and take a head count.

Nine bullets sit inside, and pulling the slide back ejects a tenth from the chamber. The pistol had been fully loaded, meaning that the runner that killed the poor cowboy deputy probably caught him completely by surprise. Bad luck for him, but hopefully good luck for me.

I reload the free bullet into the clip, slap the clip back into the gun, then pump a round into the chamber and carefully uncock the hammer. I'm not a particularly good shot, I may not recognize the brand on sight alone, I may not like guns as a general rule, and it may be a bit of an idiotic stereotype, but I did grow up in Texas. I know my way around a gun.

Which is why I hesitate when I try to figure out where I'm going to keep the pistol. All the gun safety rules stored away in my brain scream dire warnings of bullets finding their way into various body parts due to accidental discharge should I try to put it in my waistband or pockets. I'm not some action heroine in a blockbuster summer movie, immune to my own stupidity.

"Sorry, Mr. Deputy," I say to the corpse as I steel myself for the job ahead, "but I need this more than you do."

Careful not to disturb the hat covering his face, I gingerly peel his jacket back from his chest and lean him just a tiny bit more forward. The jacket grudgingly slides off of his shoulders and down his back. The sleeves take a little more coercing, having to be pulled and pushed in an alternating pattern before I can bend his elbows and pull his arms all the way out. The holster itself comes off far more easily.

As I'm readjusting my own jacket over my newly acquired fashion statement, I look down at the deputy and feel a pang of conscience. This in turn causes a pang of resentment at my own conscience, but I give in and lean the man back until he's up against the wall once more. I grab his legs and pull, sliding him down until he's laid out flush on the floor, then straighten his arms and spread his jacket out across his face and upper body like a shroud. As a final touch, I pull his hat out from under the jacket and place it over his chest.

I don't know if there's any peace to be found out there, Mr. Deputy. But if there is, I hope you've found it.

Last rites administered, I holster my new weapon and vacate the premises. Quinn isn't here. It's time to move on.

A light mist of dew begins to form on the map as the constant drizzle hits its surface and beads up, but I don't worry about any damage this might cause since I'm not going to have it out for long.

The most obvious feature nearby is the lake shore across the road. Further down the road is a museum and the bowling alley that was advertised at the overlook. Neither is Quinn's kind of scene, so there seems little reason to bother checking them. Past the museum, the road continues west out of South Vale and apparently on to Paleville, wherever that is.

I'm right next to an intersection, however, with another road going south past a place called "Heaven's Night", which sounds like a night club of some kind. That's much more my dating-obsessed sister's speed, so I fold the map back up and head that way.

Mist still obscures everything around me, but I walk through it briskly, depending on Quinn's phone to keep me informed of any unwelcome fellow pedestrians. Feeling the solid weight of the pistol hanging under my left armpit is a nice little confidence booster. I just hope that the new rules I'm having to deal with don't include bullets turning back on the person who fired them.

And regardless of how far I can or can't see, the map indicated that Heaven's Night is only about a minute's walk, so I should be able to-

Oh, come on.

That's not even _fair!_

What I take at first as just a ragged patch in the road slowly expands as more and more of it enters my small globe of visibility. I slow down as I approach the torn area, thankful that I was only walking and not running full tilt through the streets. If I had been, my search for Quinn would have come to an abrupt end.

The road is gone. Not as in it came to a dead end, or it led into a vacant lot, or whatever. As in, the road is _gone_, running up to the edge of a gaping void. The ground that should have been there isn't. Looking to either side of the street I can see that the buildings that would have extended beyond that point are cut short as well. Nothing remains but a vast open pit, staggering in the sense of enormity that it seems to emanate.

_Maybe an earthquake hit,_ the rational part of my brain offers up before the gibbering part can grab hold. _There was a cave system under this section of the town, and when the quake hit the whole shebang collapsed, BOOM!_

But if that were the case, when did the earthquake happen? I look around again, but there aren't any sawhorses or traffic cones in place. No lights signaling danger, no detour signs. And even though innkeeper Eric had seen fit to mention the missing people around town, he failed to mention a whole missing section of the town itself? That seems like a rather grievous omission to me, and all of it points to this being a rather recent development.

But something is off about that, too. I'm not a light sleeper, but I'm not exactly a heavy one either. Any quake that could cause this or even just part of the town collapsing itself would have been far more than enough to have woken me up last night. Further, nothing else seemed to have suffered any damage from the shock, except perhaps the fallen newspaper rack back at the gas station.

In fact, the devastation seems to have cut a fairly straight line through everything rather than the jagged mess I would have expected. It isn't a precise shear or anything. Small chunks of asphalt stick out into the void, and leaning a little forward I can see pipes and electrical wiring sticking out of the exposed walls and floors of the damaged bowling alley. But it's still a far neater cut than could be made by a natural disaster severe enough to cause this level of destruction. It was almost as if a giant scoop had come along, dug in, and carried off a huge section of the neighborhood without unduly disturbing anything around it.

I inch over to the edge and look down. The cliff face has a few sewer pipes jutting out of it, but otherwise it's just as unnaturally cut as the rest save for a slight curve, suggesting that I may be standing on one side of a gigantic crater. The fog isn't as thick over the side for some reason, allowing me to see at least a few dozen yards down, but it still manages to obscure any bottom the pit might have. For all I know, it doesn't have a bottom at all. The effect is much like standing at the edge of the world itself, giving me a sense of vertigo that forces me back from the insane cliff.

Clutching my forehead, I turn around and try to steady myself. I take a step but stop short when I hear a distinct _snap_. Lifting my boot, I can see what looks like some kind of over-sized keyring underneath. Instead of keys the ring is attached to a small lump of strangely familiar cloth. Curious, I pick the object up and examine it closely to see that it is a pink scrunchie. More importantly, it's one of Quinn's pink scrunchies.

I can't believe I can recognize one of her stupid little hair band things. I'd feel dirty if I was capable of feeling anything but stunned disbelief at the moment.

The broken chunk of plastic it's attached to is less familiar. While I won't discount the notion of articles of my or Quinn's clothing being tossed this far by the car's strange explosion, the keyring itself isn't anything of ours. Large block letters are printed on one side, reading "HALL F" up to the break, and it slowly dawns on me that the F isn't really an F and that the keyring isn't really a keyring at all. It's a hall pass.

Picking the other fragment up from the ground, I hold the pieces together and flip them over. On the other side in much smaller lettering is "Property of Munson High School - If found, please return to:" and a Silent Hill address.

What the hell is this doing out here, I wonder? Did someone put the hall pass on top of my car and forget it there, and then the explosion somehow coincidentally looped the ring around one of Quinn's scrunchies and deposited the result here where I just happened to step on it?

Or is this a sign of something more sinister? Did someone kidnap Quinn and then leave this as some kind of sick clue as to where I could find her? Or . . . what's left of her?

I grind my teeth together and force myself to quell the emotional response that thought brings up. Whatever disagreements or discord may have ever passed between us, the idea of someone hurting Quinn like that . . . but getting angry won't help her. And right now, I still don't know exactly what happened to her at all. She may have left this here herself somehow to let me know where she's hiding out so I can go find her.

It doesn't make any more or less sense that any of the other options, really, which is to say it doesn't make any sense at all. But it's still the best thing I have to a clue. Certainly more than just the vague notions I was working on before. If the rules of this fog-drenched world include cryptic directions left in strange areas, then so be it. After shoving the scrunchie in my pocket, I pull the town map out, find the school all the way on the southernmost end, and circle it in red marker.

Munson High School, here I come. 


	4. South Vale

I like walking.

There are, of course, obstacles in the path to that enjoyment. For example, I'm extremely lazy, particularly when it comes to any sort of physical exertion. I'd much rather sit down and scarf junk food while watching a _Sick, Sad World_ marathon than go out and work a good, hard day out in the field planting corn. Cynicism also figures heavily against walking. Why walk when you can get other people to drive you? Fresh air and sunshine are overrated anyway. And then there's the fact that Mom likes to powerwalk. I sure as hell can't let it be known that I like something that even remotely resembles something my mother likes.

But walking is something I've pretty much had to learn to love. With both of my parents either busy, oblivious, or both most of the time, I've rarely had anyone around to give me rides over the years. And more recently, my own fear of driving - even before the accident - has kept me from becoming entirely self-sufficient in the motorized transportation racket. Walking has always been my primary method of getting from point A to point M.

Point B is usually some sporting event or a movie theater playing nothing but romantic comedies. To hell with point B. And I was rarely fond of point A in the first place.

What finally pushed me from a grudging respect of the art of walking into a full blown _like_, however, was probably Jane. She knows all the interesting places to go in Lawndale, and she has the drive to get out there and go see them. Not that she doesn't enjoy the occasional bit of couch potatoing herself, but she's always been the more physically active of the two of us, leading to me spending a lot more time on my feet in order to spend more time with her.

Hmm. I should probably never word it like that out loud. It would just fuel those rumors about us.

And I think it's time to abandon that line of thought anyway. Thinking about Jane simply reminds me that that she's not here. Loneliness sits at the edges of my chest, threatening to burrow its way in, and the one thing I really don't need at the moment is a reminder of just how cut off I am. I can handle being alone, but ever since I met Jane I've become acutely sensitive to being lonely.

Many wouldn't understand the difference, but that's because for many "alone" and "lonely" are one and the same. It is why, I'm convinced, people like Quinn and her gal pals spend nearly every waking moment together at school, at home, and on the phone, gabbing away at each other. They need that constant tangible input in order to continue functioning properly.

I, on the other hand, can spend hours or even days in the company of nobody but some good books without any problem as long as I know that I have at least one person out there that I can reach whenever I need to. It's a psychic comfort that I've strangely become dependent upon, and the withdrawal symptoms . . .

Well, honesty with one's self is supposed to be the best policy. The withdrawal symptoms during those times that Jane and I had a falling out weren't pretty. But we were angry at each other then. This is more a physical separation not of our own choice or doing, right? I should be able to keep it together.

_Should_ be.

The slight quiver of Quinn's phone makes me twitch involuntarily. I immediately stop walking and scan the fog while pulling out my pistol. I point it down at the sidewalk and place my thumb on the hammer, ready to cock it back the second the vibrations get too rowdy for comfort.

But as I take a few cautious steps forward, they stay relatively the same. And that's when I hear it. A steady, repetitive thumping noise coming from the other side of the half-constructed wall I'm walking alongside. After a couple of seconds, the thumps seem to match up to the phone's vibrations, almost as if they were echoing each other somehow.

An open space in the wall fades into view up ahead, so I slide along the plastic covered plywood until I reach the edge and then take a quick peek. I'm not quite sure what to make of what I see.

A runner is on the ground, jerking around feebly, trying to get up or get away. Every time it does so, the man circling it smashes the closest part of it with a long length of metal pipe. The elbow joint still screwed onto the pipe's end drips with the runner's brackish blood.

Finally, the creature's movements grow weaker and weaker until they stop at the same time as the phone's vibrations. I haven't yet determined why the small device can pick up their proximity like that, but it seems as reasonable as it gets around here that whatever weird electromagnetic field they must give off shuts down when they're dead.

But even though the runner is quite obviously a corpse swimming in a puddle of its own fluids, the man continues to circle it and beat it every once in a while, lifting the pipe over his head and slamming it down into the beast's thin limbs, torso, and head. I can't make out whatever expression he might have, as his face is hidden partially in mist and partially under the hood of his rust red sweatshirt. It's possible that he may be the first live human I've seen since waking up, but it's impossible to tell just what might be under there from this distance.

Given the strange, ritualistic way he's savaging the corpse in the parking lot of what looks to be an apartment building, I don't think I want to be able to tell. When he finally stops, reaches down to grab the runner by one of its pegs, and starts dragging it away, I'm absolutely sure that however lonely I might be feeling, this will not be someone I'll be reaching out to. I move away from the wall and then freeze in horror as a small pebble bounces off the toe of my boot and clacks sharply in the nearby gutter.

I flatten myself against the wall again, baring my teeth and praying that he was too busy acting like a freaky sociopath to have noticed. After a few moments of silence, I turn and stick one eye around the corner again to see him standing in a half-drag position, runner's leg still in his hand. I can see the square lower jaw covered with a few day's worth of brown stubble, but his eyes - assuming he has any - are still hidden under the shadow of his hood.

Fortunately, it seems that I am hidden from his view as well. He swivels his head back and forth a few times, trying to pierce the fog around him, but eventually turns and continues on his way, leaving a smeared trail of black behind him.

Right. So. That was weird.

I stay by the open section of fence for a few more moments, contemplating my options and the implications of what I just witnessed. On the face of it, it definitely looked like the man was acting strange, beating mercilessly on something that was definitely dead.

But then I think back on my first experience with a runner. How it suddenly started twitching again after I'd already beaten it down. Considering that, the man's reaction seemed much more reasonable. Almost necessary, in fact. If he didn't have an early warning system of his own, the only way for him to know for sure that the creature was down for the count would be to render it into a pulp.

What about dragging it away, though? Maybe he was taking it somewhere to hide the corpse so other creatures wouldn't come across it and then search around, finding his hiding spot? The blood trail seems to negate that hypothesis, but I still don't know how the runners sense things. They might notice a body but not just the blood.

He might know more about these things than I do. He might be able to help me find Quinn. He might not even be human.

Cursing myself for a fool, I turn to face the opening in the wall, step over the divider, and begin to follow the trail. As I do so, I put my pistol back in its holster and pull out the tire iron instead. I really hope that I don't have to use either weapon on him, but some small, noble part of me thinks it should at least be a somewhat fair fight. Plus, the thought of actually pointing a gun at another person makes me feel sick to my stomach.

What I mistook earlier for a parking lot is actually the foundation of a building that has been mostly cleared away. Off to my left, I can make out the jagged edges of what's left of the apartment complex. Unlike the crater in the road, however, I can see that this disappeared section has a more rational explanation.

Scaffolding and construction equipment surround the exposed end of the apartments, and it appears someone was in the process of bricking it up to turn it into a smaller building, possibly with the intent of selling it as a house in and of itself. It was a fairly common practice for landlords back in Highland to knock the walls out of old run-down duplexes and sell them off as low income housing for large families. Innkeeper Eric mentioned that the tourist trade was going steadily downhill, so it's not a stretch of the imagination that something similar might be happening here.

It's actually a little comforting in its normalcy.

Less comforting is the blood trail I'm following, of course. Though I move slow, it doesn't take me long to get across the lot to find that the trail leads up to the side of another building, entering it through a large crack near the left edge of the wall. No signs of construction accompany this hole. It's simply there, surrounding a darkened interior that seems to yawn at me like a chasm.

Ducking to avoid cracking my head on the overhanging bricks, I step inside and wait a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Before me is a corridor with a door on the right side. Everything past that is lost in the gloom.

Cobwebs hang down from the ceiling, almost obscuring the overhead lighting mounts that are lacking any bulbs. I look down to see that the blood trail has started to lessen, partially because it's being absorbed by what looks to be a half-inch worth of dust. The result is semi-congealed, making it look like gel toothpaste that's turned completely black. The dust contains footprints partially erased by the dragging body, which I begin to follow.

The prints continue on past the door, and there hardly seems any reason to believe that there might be anyone or anything beyond it worth checking out, but I decide to stop and check it anyway. I reach down and grip the dust-covered knob, then turn it gently. A soft click emanates from the mechanism, followed by something between a crunching and a grinding sound. It seems for a second it's going to go ahead and let me keep turning anyway, but it eventually comes to a sudden stop with a light _clunk_.

It looks like the lock is broken. I can't open it. So I ignore it instead and continue down the hallway. Another door appears to my right, but I pass this one by completely. Like the previous door, it has three numbers posted on the front over what looks like one side of a peephole, meaning I'm definitely inside an apartment building, and I'm not sure if I want to stumble across any of the occupants. Seeing one savagely mutilated body is enough for one day, thank you.

Up ahead in the darkness, I can make out an opening only by the contrast. It looks to be a crack in the wall similar to the one I originally entered, but the light isn't bright enough to be coming directly from outside. Still, like the one on the other side of the hall it looks like it's just a simple crack in the wall and not a former door. The wall around it is covered in dust and webs and it's difficult to see without a good light source, but I can still see that it's a slightly different color than the walls running perpendicular to it, making me wonder if this entire section had been closed off at some point.

Tossing aside the creepy thoughts of why that might have been done, I step through to find myself standing under a stairwell. Walking around to the other side, I see that I'm in the front foyer of the apartments, a small area only slightly less filthy than the section I was just in. Light streams down from some windows somewhere above. Mailboxes sit in neat rows in the wall near the front door, but most of them appear to have been broken into, and shredded mail lies scattered across the floor underneath.

The blood trail circles around to the bottom of the stairs before disappearing almost completely. A few fresh spots and splatters still sit on every other step or so, but apparently the runner had finally run out of juice. When I get to the second floor landing, this presents itself as a problem, since the stairs continue going up, but what sounds like a muttered curse catches my attention.

Another corridor, much longer than the one before, stretches out to the left and the right. Thankfully it seems the maid hasn't been completely derelict in her duties, as everything seems to be on the good side of ramshackle. At the very least, everything is dimly lit by overhead lights unevenly spaced along the ceiling. I follow the string of obscenities until I notice another light source coming from a nearby doorway.

The runner is there, its upper body sticking out into the hall, and my heart nearly jumps into my throat as it jerks and wiggles for a second. One of its elbows knocks into the frame as it slides into the room, however, and I realize that it's still being dragged along.

I clear the phlegm that has gathered in my throat from all the dust and call out, "Hello?"

His head, still mostly hidden by the hoodie, sticks out and quickly zeros in on me. I hold my hand up as the light that seems to be coming from his chest nearly blinds me and wonder if this was a good idea after all. I think I can see him frowning deeply between my splayed fingers, but the cloud suddenly lifts to be replaced by surprise.

"Oh! Sorry!" he says, then angles the flashlight pinned to his hoodie toward the floor. "Hello!"

I lower my hand but not my guard. The metal of the tire iron feels slippery between my fingers, but I keep as tight a grip as I can. I notice he still has his pipe out. Better safe than sorry.

"Are you . . . ?"

"What? _Human?_" he asks cheerfully. "100% Grade A! And let me tell you, it's good to see another one still around! Name's David. David Presser. And you are?"

"Melody," I tell him, the lie coming out easier than I thought it would. "Melody Powers."

"Well, Melody Powers," he says, flourishing his pipe to indicate the walls around him, "welcome to Silent Hill!"

Said the crazy man.

Red flags are flying up in every direction. Nothing about this seems right. This was a stupid idea. I shouldn't have followed him. I should turn around and leave right this second.

Instead, I stand right where I am and mumble, "Um . . . thanks."

"No problem," he says, pulling his hood back. "We should probably compare notes, right? Come on in."

He jerks his head at the open doorway, then steps through it. Bracing myself for an ambush, I take my iron in both hands and follow him, but nothing awaits me on the other side but the mostly empty living room of a small apartment. The dead runner sits in the middle of the room, and David has stepped into the nearby kitchenette and is rummaging through one of the cabinets. The pipe he was carrying sits on the counter, a mere plumbing fixture until it gets picked up and becomes a weapon again.

Without the hood, he doesn't look quite as threatening as before, for whatever that might be worth. In fact, he looks a little like a slightly more unkempt version of Tom, my ex-boyfriend. Short brown hair sticking up at slightly odd angles, squarish jaw covered in stubble and sitting on the bottom of a tall face. If I weren't in the middle of an emergency and were apt to actually say such things, I might just say he was almost kind of approaching handsome.

Ish.

In a way.

I guess.

"So, Mel," he says. "May I call you Mel? And more importantly, are you thirsty by any chance?"

I swallow, trying to force saliva down my suddenly dry throat. "Not really."

He laughs and pulls two can from the cabinet. "I swear it's not poison," he tries to reassure me. "It only _tastes_ like poison."

Cans in hand, he passes by me and walks further into the dim living room. A few seconds later, a light sparks and then adjusts upward as David turns on an ancient looking lantern, the kind you'd buy from a camping store. He sets the lamp on the floor, switches off the light on his chest, throws himself bodily into a musty stuffed chair, and gestures at the other chair across from him. I take the seat and grudgingly accept the can he holds out for me to take.

"Cheers!" he says, popping the top of his own can and slugging down the contents. "Aaaah, yah! Tastes like shit but hits the spot. Seriously, it's not gonna kill you," he says amiably when he notices I still haven't done anything with mine. "Why would I kill the first non-monster, non-dead person I've met since I got here? We human beings gotta stick together."

I look at the thing in my hand and frown. It looks like a normal soda can, but I don't recognize the label, a mostly brown and white affair that simply reads "Health Drink" in an old-fashioned typeface. Listed underneath in smaller lettering are the ingredients, most of which have names that conjure up thoughts of the stuff Dad brings home when he gets on an all-natural kick.

"Weird, huh?" David comments. "You can find 'em all over the place if you're willing to look. And it's a good thing, too. There's not much for food, but just one of these is like a three course meal all on its own. I don't think I would've made it this long without 'em."

"I noticed the food situation," I say with distaste, then look up as his words fully sink in. "This long?" I ask. "What do you mean 'this long'?"

He screws his face up, looking as if he's doing mental calisthenics. "Well, since the fog rolled in there hasn't been a real nighttime, so it's kinda hard to say, but I think I've been here . . . three days? Not quite four."

Everything inside my chest suddenly tries to drop out by way of my stomach. I can feel the blood draining away from my face. "That can't be right."

"Hey, scout's honor!" he says, holding up his hand. "Came into town to visit some family. Woke up in the middle of the night, looked out the window, saw the fog in the distance. Went to wake up the cousin and his wife, but their bed was empty. Then the fog really came in, rolled over the town, and I watched as everything just kinda . . . changed. Weird as hell, and I've been stuck here ever since. All the exits outta town are blocked off one way or another. Most of the buildings are sealed up tight. I managed to gather a few supplies and have been holed up here, trying to stay away from the monsters. I was starting to think I might be the only person left on the planet until you showed up."

I listen to his story numbly, only really hearing every other word. "No, you don't understand," I tell him. "I only woke up about an hour ago. When I went to sleep last night, everything was still normal. The fog's only been here for eight, nine hours tops. Not three or four days. I wasn't in Silent Hill three days ago."

He takes another drink and licks his lips slowly, his brow crinkling slightly in concern. "Wow, that's heavy," he says.

"What's going on here?" I demand. My tone is accusatory, and I realize belatedly that I actually half-mean it to be.

He holds his hands up and shrugs. "Hey, you got me! I'm just a good ol' boy from Shepherd's Glen! The only weird crap I've ever heard happening in Silent Hill has been rumors up 'til now!"

I lean back in my seat and loosen my grip on the tire iron a little bit. "Sorry," I mumble, feeling mortified that I might be alienating what might be the only other person for miles besides me and my sister. "I'm just . . . a little out of my depth here."

"Pssh, tell me about it," he says, then finishes his drink and sets the empty can on the floor.

I sigh and put the iron across my legs so I can open my Health Drink. I still don't know what's going on or whether or not I can trust this man, but he did leave his weapon in the kitchenette. And I am pretty thirsty, come to think of it. So, bottoms up. I can only hope I survive the experience.

Huh. It tastes like Ultra-Cola Fizz. I haven't had an Ultra-Cola Fizz since they discontinued it three years ago. Unfortunately, it also tastes like a _warm_ Ultra-Cola Fizz, but I manage to choke it down anyway.

"Whoa."

"I know, right?" he says, smiling and nodding. "Got a nice little kick!"

That's a bit of an understatement. The small pit of hunger that had finally started to form in my gut is gone. The muscles in my arms and legs suddenly feel like steel bands. Lightning hits my brain, and I have a sense of perfect clarity and confidence. I feel clean, clear, alert, and ready to go _go_ GO!

But just as I'm about to stand up and start on my first three-second mile, the feeling fades. It doesn't go away completely, however, leaving me with a wholesome sense of refreshment.

I take a second gulp, and the high hits again with slightly less intensity than before. I strongly suspect that each successive drink will get weaker and weaker as it goes along, but upon reflection I don't think it would matter if it didn't. David was right about it not being the greatest tasting stuff in the world. Ultra-Cola Fizz was discontinued for a reason. I won't be getting hooked on the stuff anytime soon.

"So, what's your story?" David asks, settling back in his chair. "What brings you to this fine little burg?"

I wipe my mouth on my sleeve to stall for time. "I was on my way to college," I finally say. "It was getting late, so I decided to make a stopover for the night. My . . . cousin was traveling with me, but when I woke up, she was gone. You wouldn't happen to have seen her? Red hair, slightly taller than me, almost certainly wearing pink?"

"Hmm, nope," he says with a shake of his head. "Like I said earlier, you're the first person I've seen since the fog."

Dammit. That's right. He did say that. Twice now, I think. Way to play it close to the chest, Daria.

"But!" he continued. "If you'd like, I can keep an eye out for her while I'm doing my scavenger runs later and send her your way if you'd like. I'm guessing you're gonna want to get back out on the road to look for her, right? Where are you thinking of looking?"

Another dammit. Is this some kind of clever trap or a genuine attempt to help? I hate this. I hate having to deal with people and their little games under normal circumstances. Now, with everything topsy-turvy and monster-ized, it's even worse.

_Stop being so paranoid._

Fine.

I pull out my map, unfold it, and scoot forward so he can see it. Pointing out the areas I've circled, I tell him about my plans to check the school and then head for the police station.

"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm," he says thoughtfully. "Can I borrow your pen for a second?"

Once he has the marker, he carefully draws some squiggles on the nearby roads, blocking off almost all the routes south save for one, a twisty curving path that I don't like the looks of at all.

"Craters?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

David pops the top back on my marker and hands it back to me. "Ah, so you're already familiar with the town's little seismic anomalies, eh? Well, that'll save a lot of explaining. But yah, I've been checking all of the roads and memorizing the locations of the breaks when I go out. A couple of them have changed on me - don't ask me how, I have no idea - but these have stayed pretty steady. I don't know about anything past here, but this should still get you where you're going."

"Hrn. Thanks," I mumble, then down the last of my drink. "Um. I . . . better be going, then."

"Hey, no problem. Sad to see you leave so soon, but glad you stopped by anyway. Right neighborly of you and all that. Let me just get you a couple more drinks to take with you, and I'll see you down to the street. Okay?"

"Yah," I hear myself saying as we stand up. "Okay. Sounds great."

* * *

Okay, class. Raise your hand if you think that was the most surreal conversation ever. A unanimous "yes"? That's what I thought.

It isn't that I'm ungrateful for his help by any means. If they can do what the first one did for me, then the two Health Drinks weighing down my jacket pockets are probably the best things anyone could have given me aside from, say, a tank or a map straight out of this crazy town. But still, there was definitely something off about the whole thing.

David was . . . well, truthfully, he was just too chipper for being trapped in Silent Hill, especially if he really has been here as long as he says he has. Of course, just about everyone in the world seems chipper compared to me, the supposed "Misery Chick" - a title which I actively despise, despite the occasional fear that it might, in fact, fit - but I think even without the comparison, he was just downright _weird_.

Still, weird or not, he did help.

When I hit the nearest intersection I stop walking, read the street signs on the corner, and pull out my map to orient myself. I'm at the crossing of Katz and Neely, so I need to turn south on Neely, then east on Sanders, south again on Lindsey . . .

Suffice to say that thanks to the city craters, my path will be somewhat circuitous but not horribly bad. Tracing the path with my finger, I see that on my way to the school, I'll have to take what looks to be an unlabeled side-road that runs along the local shopping center. This definitely raises my hopes a little that I'll actually find Quinn in the area. If the center contains a Cashman's having a half-off sale, I might not even have to continue on to the school.

Putting away the map and tire iron, I re-arm myself with my pistol, and not a moment too soon. Just as I'm checking the safety, I feel the soft tell-tale quiver of the phone. Something's coming. I step as lightly as I can to the sidewalk and creep along the storefronts to my right. I peer into the mists, expecting the lithe form of a runner to appear any second, shambling along on its alien business.

Nothing. The vibrations continue and grow stronger, but I don't hear the echoing tap of bone or the harsh scrape of metal. As far as I am able to see, the street remains clear of pedestrians, unusual or otherwise. The paranoia I was feeling back in David's haven comes back full force, and this time I have no conflicts with it. The phone's warnings begin to fluctuate a little, getting stronger and weaker in turns broken by brief periods where they remain moderate but steady.

Whatever this thing is, I think it's checking me out. Testing my reactions. _Hunting_ me. But there's nothing _there_, just fog fog fog and more fog. I'm missing something. I'm-

_LOOK UP._

A heavy _whuff whuff whuff_ comes from above me as I jerk my head up to see the thing slowly bearing down on me, it's fleshy wings beating steadily as it hovers just a few yards ahead. A female humanoid body hangs from those wings, its nude but featureless body an expanse of skin the color of rotting flesh. A wide, cruelly curved beak of grey steel sits under two piercing eyes locked directly on me.

It's the harpy from my nightmare.

Didn't see that one coming.

With a wretched screech, the creature drops out of the air, aiming for my head and shoulders with the long talons protruding from it's crooked toes. I'm frozen with surprise for only a second, then I pull myself to one si-

"_AAAAHHH!_" I scream as one of the talons catches me across the side of the head, tearing into my scalp! I'm bleeding! Oh shit, and it burns, and I find myself on the ground, my shoulder blade sore from where the heel of the harpy's foot smacked me on the way past.

The harpy recovers from its landing faster than I can, and now it's standing over me, clicking its beak and spreading its wings to either side in order to block any attempt to escape.

Blood runs down into my right eye, forcing me to blink to try and clear it away. Through the red, I can see the bird-thing lunge forward, and I throw my left arm up to block it, but it just grabs my forearm in its beak and clamps down. The bones within creak without breaking, and the jacket sleeve keeps it from biting into my skin, but it still hurts like a mother, causing me to scream a second time.

"_Bitch!_" I yell in the monster's face. "_Bitch! Fucking bitch!_"

Though my head is completely addled by the burning cut and distracted by the pain in my trapped arm, my right hand at least seems to know what it's doing. Almost as an automatic reaction, I click the safety off on the pistol, press the barrel up against the harpy's chest, and pull the trigger.

The noise is barely muffled by the harpy's bulk, and it is joined by the horrifying scream of the creature itself as the bullet passes through its body and exits out the other side in a spray of blackish blood. It remains stubbornly clamped to my arm, however, and from the extra surge of pain I can tell that it's chomping down even harder than before.

"_Die die DIE!_" I scream, punctuating each word with another shot from the pistol, each one given a slightly different angle by the harpy's jerky struggles, its instincts seeming to simultaneously tell it to get away and to hang on at the same time.

After the final shot, however, the struggling seems to take a different quality as it slowly tips from one side to the other, then falls over, finally releasing my forearm in the process. I roll away from the creature, hit the brick wall next to me, then watch as it claws fitfully in the air with its feet, coughs up a foul stream of blood, then flops back into stillness.

The vibrations from the phone cease, but I train the gun on the beast for a few long seconds anyway. I consider putting another bullet right into its head, but my rational side is starting to kick back in, and it tells me that I need to conserve the ammo.

It's dead.

The pain tearing through my head and arm, on the other hand, seem to be reliable indicators that I am still quite alive and in serious need of some medical attention. I can feel warm blood still trickling down the side of my face, and I can see several strands of my hair stuck to the harpy's foot where it hit me.

I try to stand but my legs threaten to buckle underneath me. My vision goes fuzzy, my balance flips almost entirely upside-down, and I think I'm about to vomit. I need to find something to press against the cut in my head to stop the blood loss, so I begin to take off my jacket to use the lining when I feel the weight of the can inside the pocket.

Hastily I set down the pistol and dig out one of the Health Drinks. When I crack the top open it starts to fizz out everywhere, but I ignore the mess I'm making and start slugging the fluid down as soon as I can get the opening to my lips. Carbonation bubbles nearly clog my nose and I can feel them painfully expanding my esophagus on the way down, but I keep drinking.

The mild euphoric high finally hits me, and things begin to snap back into clarity. When I try to get up again, my leg muscles stay strong and lift me all the way to a standing position. I go back to taking my jacket off when suddenly my head wound and the sore areas of my arm and back start to itch like crazy. Resistance is futile and I reach up to scratch at my head almost against my will, my jacket dropped to the sidewalk forgotten.

My finger hits the ragged edge of the wound and jerks back in reflex as a fresh burn of pain pulses through my scalp. I press back in, intent on dragging my fingernails across the itchy area, pain or no pain, but stop when I can feel my own skin . . . wriggling.

The vomit thing creeps up on me again. Dealing with oddities separate from myself is one thing, but this is almost more than I'm prepared to handle. My mind fills unbidden with scenes from a hundred different horror movies where some character or another has gotten infected with the virus and slowly transforms into some slithering, mutated _thing_. Sure, they're just actors wearing prosthetics or with CGI effects pasted onto them in post-production, but this - whatever _this_ is - is actually happening.

What the hell?

My fear gives way to curiosity as the wriggling stops. I press down on the side of my head with my fingertips after a few seconds to find that the pain, while still there, is lessened. The flow of blood seems to have stopped on its own and is quickly turning sticky against the side of my face. The wound, which seemed like a roughly triangular piece of missing flesh and hair before, now feels like a superficial cut, a single line running through a soft patch of newly grown hair.

The pain in my arm and back, meanwhile, are completely gone as if they had never been there. I don't feel great by any means, but I no longer feel as if I'm in a dire emergency anymore.

Before I can start working it all out, the phone vibrates, and this time I can hear the distant tapping of a runner possibly zeroing in on the scent of a fresh kill. I collect my pistol from the ground, toss the empty drink can down in its place, and move away from the scene as fast as my legs can take me.

Rocks fly off into nothingness and then clatter along the sloped side of a crater as I skid to a stop right at the edge. This doesn't help my heart rate any, but I ignore the fact that I almost went tumbling off into space and concentrate on turning left to run down the intersecting street.

I pass another intersection before being forced to come to a stop by an impossibly high chain link fence covered in sheet plastic. I bang my fists on it, sending waves rippling along its surface, but it remains steadfastly in my way. I then slump forward to lean against the fence as I try to catch my breath.

Not even two blocks and I'm already feeling worn out. But then, as much walking as I do, running has never been my forte. That's always been Jane's bag.

Eventually my lungs stop burning. The last vestiges of the Health Drink course through my veins, leaving me not refreshed but still standing and capable of walking. I turn away from the fence and click the safety on my pistol before reholstering it. I'm a few shots down now, but considering it was a life or death situation, it was worth it.

The "death" part catches me and I nearly stumble as I make my way back to the intersection. I almost died back there. It wasn't even like with my first encounter with the runner, which I escaped mostly unharmed. If I hadn't had that drink, I might have ended up bleeding to death.

I need to find more Health Drinks.

I need to figure out what the hell is going on here.

_Rules rules rules rules rules._

Right, the rules of Silent Hill. The harpy was in my dream yesterday morning. It looked exactly the same all the way down to the metal beak. So the way I see it, that means one of three things.

One, I'm still dreaming. I reach up and press my fingers into the wound on my head and get a swift, searing edge of pain. I kick at a rock sitting on the asphalt. I sniff the moldy air and feel the heavy moisture settling on my skin and in my clothes. This is no dream. Despite the strangeness of my surroundings, everything has the gritty feel of reality to it.

Two, I'm precognitive. I foresaw all of this happening, and eventually I'm going to meet up with a huge pack of demon squirrels. Hooray.

Or three, the town is feeding off of my own mind, taking things from my nightmares and making them real. Since I've never had any sign of psychic powers before, it would seem that this last option is the most likely. Which isn't exactly comforting, come to think of it, especially since it still means I'll still be seeing demon squirrels any minute now.

Except David said that he saw the fog roll in around three days ago, which would have happened long before I saw the fog in my dream. Of course for all I know, David was just a figment of my imagination brought to life as well. Is that why I was so leery of him? Could I instinctively sense that he wasn't real?

Hmm.

I simply don't have enough information to go on yet, and it's got my mind tracking down blind alleys. Which doesn't seem too different from what I'm doing physically as well. I've begun to wander while lost in my own thoughts, my feet automatically turning me around every time I come across a missing road or an inexplicable wall.

A runner comes at me and manages to slice through the sleeve of my jacket and cut deeply into my upper arm. When it skids to a stop and slowly starts to turn around, I smash it in the head with my tire iron. I hear a crack come from within, then the sound of smashing glass as the thing's skull dents inward with the second strike. It makes a sort of wheezing, strangled cry as it falls to the ground and I stomp its rib cage down with my boot.

I'm bleeding again, but after the encounter with the harpy these things hardly seem worth the trouble. I run my hand across the second Health Drink in my pocket but decide to leave it in case a real emergency comes up. Pressing the slit fabric of my jacket against the wound, I move along.

The South Vale Shopping Center finally appears out of the mist. I'm just about to turn into the entrance when I suddenly notice that the dim shape of the building isn't the only one darkening the fog. There's . . . _something_ in the center parking lot. Something the shape of a small mountain, and it's quivering at the top. The faint sound of crunching and grinding comes from deep inside the thing, muffled by its layers of whatever passes for skin and muscle.

I can't make out any details, and I don't want to. As surely as the thought bargain clothes shopping might draw Quinn in, the thought of a car - and possibly girl - eating mountain-monster would most definitely keep her out. She won't be here.

Exiting the side road, I'm once again on Munson Street, only this time I'm on the correct end. A few moments later and I can see a handful of cars sitting in the school parking lot.

I move among these silent machines, wiping collected mist from the windows and peering in. I don't have any hope of actually getting any of them to start, but my search bears fruit when I see two cans of Health Drink sitting in one of the vehicles' passenger seats. The doors are locked, of course, so I smash open the driver's side window with my iron.

I should probably feel bad about doing that, but I don't.

Holstering my weapon, I unlock and open the door, then carefully lean across to pop the lock on the passenger side door before walking around and opening it. I put one of the drinks in my jacket pocket while I pop the other open and sit down for a moment of rest.

The wound in my arm closes up, and I can feel the short hair on my head start to wriggle out to its normal length. The bit of cut left there from my last drink disappears completely, and the weariness from the long, wet walk starts to lift from my body.

After a few moments of enjoying the surge from the drink, I lazily open one eye and stare down at the glove compartment. Curiosity wells within me and I pop it open to see what I can find.

Maps. Old receipts from oil changes. Pair of sunglasses. Tire pressure gauge. Title. Maintenance manual. Ah-_ha!_

Amidst all the papers and other detritus, my hand clamps down on a small cylinder. I pull the flashlight out and hit the button, lighting up the dashboard. Like David's light, it has a swivel head allowing it to be placed in a breast pocket, which as it turns out my jacket lacks. As fortune would have it, however, this little number happens to have a clip on the back which I use to hang it from my jacket's lapel.

It's already dark enough in this fog. It's probably only going to get darker inside buildings where there's no electricity, so at least now I'm prepared. And thank goodness. I'm already getting pretty tired of things catching me off guard.

Feeling refreshed and ready to go, I throw the empty can in the floorboard and step back out of the car. The door echoes creepily when I slam it shut, but I ignore the possibility of anything out there hearing it. I walk up to the large brick building on the other side of the lot, open the front door, and step inside. 


	5. School

This place is old.

I'm not just thinking of the decor here, though it definitely does qualify. Colors that haven't been seen since the seventies line the walls. The molding running along the corners is of some fancy design that probably hasn't been in use since the fifties. Even the doors that have just slammed shut behind me are thick, ornamental, and operate using a complicated external system of levers, latches, and gears that look like they'd be right at home on the entrance of an 1880's general store.

But what really makes me feel the building's age is the fact that everything looks completely worn out and disused, as if Munson High hasn't seen a student - or, more importantly, a janitor - walking its halls in several decades.

Cobwebs line the ceiling and hang down in droopy grey threads. A billboard sits on my left in the entrance foyer, and the bills festooning its surface are yellowed and brittle looking. I can see a few inspirational posters stuck up on the hallway walls, but the kittens hanging from branches and scenes of airplanes flying through blue skies are all washed out and covered with a light sprinkling of mold.

The air smells stale with just a hint of foul rot underlying every inhaled breath. I click on my flashlight, revealing a swirl of dust floating through the air. I don't like this place already.

But hey, at least I'm not being constantly bombarded by tiny fog pellets.

I step further into the building and find myself standing in the middle of a T-shaped intersection, the hallway stretching off into the gloom to my left and right. A small window looking like an old-fashioned teller station sits in the wall in front of me, the glass unnaturally smooth and clear for all the mess around it. I lean forward and stand on tip-toe, shining my light in and doing my best to see through the resulting glare.

There doesn't appear to be anyone on the other side. I tap my fingers lightly on the glass and toy with the small service bell sitting on the counter but pass on making any noise this early in the game. I might get Quinn's attention, draw her right to me, and get the hell out of here without a minimum of fuss . . . or I might get something else's attention, draw it right to me, and stay in Silent Hill forever as a partially digested meal.

As I turn away to start walking down the hall, a brief glint of metal from the far end of the counter catches my eye. Walking over to it, I find a pistol clip sitting right underneath the partition. A pistol clip that just so happens to be the exact kind my pistol uses, and appears to have at least one bullet sitting at the top.

Eh. What the hell. I found Health Drinks just sitting in a car seat. Why not this? Without sticking my fingers too far under the partition, I grip the clip and slip it out.

No monster tries to grab my hand. No alarms go off. And a quick once-over shows the clip to be nothing more than what it looks like. Moreover, it's completely filled, giving me ten more bullets to work with in a handy-dandy easy-to-use package. How . . . _convenient_.

I slide my new acquisition into one of my jacket's inner pockets and then trade my iron for my pistol as I start down the right corridor. The ambient light is surprisingly bright for being filtered through a thick layer of fog and then a set of door windows, but I'm still glad to have my new flashlight all the same. It lights up a door on my left just a few steps in, a door with the word "OFFICE" printed across it at eye level.

The door creaks open and allows me into the room I looking into before. But even though I already checked it out, I stay cautious for anything jumping out from behind one of the three office desks scattered around. I rummage through the drawers, hoping to find one of the huge sets of keys to every door in the building, but I find nothing other than files and various bits of office supplies that look like they've been hit by water damage that has long since dried.

A small hallway leads off from the back of the room, but all I find there are doors to the principal and vice-principal's offices. Both are locked and I get no answer from lightly rapping my knuckles on their surface, so I head back into the main room.

As I am about to go back out into the hallway, I see a small map up on the wall next to the door. It's covered in a few markings showing the fire exits and recommended escape routes, but is otherwise easily legible and shows every room on both floors of the building. Using the butt of my pistol, I crack out the glass covering the map and pull it from its frame.

After taking a few seconds to make marks to remind myself that the doors to the back offices are locked, I fold the piece of paper, put it in the same pocket as the town map, and step out to continue on down the hallway. I pass by a long row of grey-painted lockers before I come across the first classroom, which turns out to be more than just locked. The doorknob obstinately refuses to turn even a fraction of an inch, almost as if the entire assembly were carved out of a single piece of unforgiving metal.

Marking this on my map, I continue on to find this to be the general state of affairs with each door I come across until I reach the end of the hall and turn the corner to my left. The next door opens easily, and I give a slight grunt of not-displeased surprise.

It's like stepping into a warzone. All of the windows on the far side of the room have been haphazardly boarded up. At first glance, it would seem that someone inside the school has done it, but as I get closer and my light hits the boards more directly, I can see that the wood is heavily scored in places. Looking down at the floor reveals why. Several schooldesks sit there overturned, broken, and twisted.

Someone wanted out. Badly.

_What's that?_

I twirl around, gun at the fore, but there's nothing there. I strain my ears, feeling my skin prickle as I try to make out even the slightest sound, but there is only silence. Strange. I could have sworn I heard something.

Trying to relax, I walk back over to the teacher's desk, the only piece of furniture in the room that hasn't been torn up. The usual array of teacher's things litter the surface, so I ignore them and try to open the drawers only to find them rusted shut. Figures.

I stand up and turn around, and that's when I notice with some amusement that Munson High School apparently hasn't yet switched out their blackboards for white. I notice with far less amusement that someone has left a message in the bottom left corner, a message that is written out not in chalk but in the unmistakable glistening crimson of blood.

_can't get out  
walls keep changing  
covered in flesh  
all doors locked  
WE ARE ALL TRAPPED_

I don't want to think of Quinn writing this sickening little half-poem. I don't want to imagine her slitting open her thumb or finger to do so. I don't want to see the image of her haunted eyes as she wanders from room to room, screaming as she tries to bash her way to freedom.

But suddenly it's the only thing I _can_ see.

I rush out of the room and gasp for breath. The air isn't any less stale out here than in the room, but at least I don't have to stare at that bloody message. I don't have to notice just how fresh it looks, how it could have been written just moments before I rounded the corner by someone who then slipped further into the building without my seeing.

If Silent Hill really is trying to use my own brain against me, it suddenly seems to be doing a damn fine job at it.

_There it is again!_

I know I heard it this time. I raise my pistol and point it down the hall as heavy breaths seethe their way through my clenched teeth. The dull thump comes again, then again, each time just a little bit closer. The first faint quivers of my cellphone stir within my pocket, and I try to ready myself for whatever new thing this forsaken town is ready to throw at me.

It steps into the dim light with a massive, muscular leg. Its other leg slowly swing around and lands a little closer to me. Each achingly heavy step it takes makes the thumping noise I heard before as its bare feet slam to the ground. Its body-

Oh, shit. Its body is the only other thing it has that I can see. The wide legs are attached to a massive torso that shows no sign of ever having had arms or a head attached to it. Its skin appears to be the pinkish hue of normal flesh, but it is covered in mottled patches of dark red that looks almost like a cross between rust and blood.

I think it's noticed me. It stops walking, then lowers its torso so that it's pointing the area where a neck should be directly at me. The wide surface its presenting is covered in what looks like a bone plate which gradually slopes to a dull point in the center.

It drags one of its feet across the ground three times, looking for all the world like a bull in some cheesy cartoon. And just like that bull, it lets out a deafening roar and charges, its enormous bulk taking up almost the entire hallway.

My thumb fumbles across the safety on the pistol, but it finally clicks over and I pop off three shots without aiming. The thing's "shoulders" are so ridiculously wide that every single shot hits, cracking through the bone and sending out small eruptions of blood.

It's not slowing down it's not slowing down _it's not slowing down!_

My entire nervous system sparks and instinctively causes my muscles to flex and release in such a way that I propel myself to the side, through the open doorway, and back into the classroom. I hit the tiled floor painfully on my shoulder while the monster charges on past, missing me completely.

I really should have just done that in the first place. Stupid.

Rolling over and standing up, I step back out and see that the monster has crashed into the wall. It seems a little dazed, but quickly shakes it off and starts thrashing its torso back and forth, smashing the lockers on its left until they dent significantly inward. A wide, toothless maw sits squarely in the small of its back, bellowing out a litany of frustration in its alien voice.

I'm weighing my options when it spins suddenly stops and begins to ponderously turn around to face me again. I can just duck back into the room again, but I won't be able to continue my search with this thing still rampaging up and down the corridors, so I empty the rest of the gun's contents into the beast before stepping out.

I can hear its thunderous steps as it charges yet again, but they falter and finally fail just after it passes by the door. With a heavy _thump_ that I swear causes the floor to shake a little, the monster falls and my phone goes still. I take a few calming breaths and switch the empty clip out for the fresh one before walking back out into the hall.

I'm not entirely certain who - or what - I may have to thank for the spare ammo, if anything, but I'm definitely feeling the thankful vibe. Having to face this thing with nothing but a tiny whacking stick might have ended up badl-

"_Aaaargh!_"

The buzz from my phone comes on full and just a second too late to warn me as a thin shape bursts out of a nearby locker, slicing my left cheek open as it goes by. I twirl around and try to get a bead on my new attacker, but it lashes out again and slashes the back of my hand. My fingers open reflexively and the gun clatters to the floor, sliding off into the darkness.

Unable to think of anything else to do, I ball my arms around my head and charge forward much in the same way as the bruiser lying dead a few feet away. By what I can only assume is blind luck, I hit my opponent and carry them forward until they hit the wall with a high-pitched screech.

As I stagger back, I hear the new thing skitter away. The phone tells me it isn't gone by any means, but at least I've managed to get it to back off while I pull out my tire iron and try to get a better look.

The creature is thin like a runner and at first I mistake it for one, but there are several immediately noticeable differences. The body is almost literally an hourglass shape with an impossibly thin waist, and like the bruiser it has no discernible head. Rather than legs, it seems to have a second set of arms, identical to the top set and capped off by a mass of grey tendrils that wave oddly in the air.

I can see my blood still slicking the edge of one of these thin, flat tendrils. Just having one of those things cut through my skin like a razor wasn't very pleasant, and I don't exactly relish the thought of having more than one rake its way across me.

The creature seems to have a very different idea about this, however, as it lets out a little scream and launches itself forward. I barely have the presence of mind to dodge, and it still catches me across the chest, cutting through my shirt and leaving six shallow gashes right above my sternum.

It skids to a stop and turns, but I'm ready for it this time. I lash out with my iron . . . and miss completely. The violent action gives the creature pause, however, and this allows me to step in closer for a second swing. It connects with one of the thing's shoulders, causing it to scream in pain.

With insane dexterity that any Olympic gymnast would envy, it ducks backward under my third swing and does five lightning fast back-flips, each time landing on a different set of arm/legs. When it's finished, it's still only a few feet away, and it's now standing on what it was originally using as hands. The fingerblades gather together in the rough shape of a flat foot and stiffen up while its former feet widen apart and begin to flow in the imaginary wind.

I can't take this thing. Not with just a thin strip of metal. It's too fast, too flexible. It'll cut me to ribbons by the time I manage to land enough blows to kill it.

I feint to one side and it takes the bait. Its wavering blades slice through the air where I had been standing as I pull around to the other side and rush past. I stop only long enough to grab my pistol off the floor and fire two shots to discourage any pursuit before running back down the hall, past the office, and to the far corner.

My cellphone has stopped buzzing, but I don't stop for even a second. Sliding the iron back into its belt loop, I run down the hall, trying every door I cross until one finally opens. I hurriedly step inside, slam it shut, and lean against it while trying and listen for movement outside over the sound of my own beating heart.

One of those beats gets skipped when a voice suddenly comes from behind me.

Instinctively, I swing the pistol up and aim it at the source. Almost immediately my hands begin to tremble violently. Not because the thing before me is another monster, even more terrible than the rest. Not even because another pistol is being aimed directly back at me, which it is.

I am completely and utterly terrified because I am pointing a gun at another human being.

Yes, I've shot and killed two of the beasts outside, but that's all they were. Beasts. Beasts who were trying to kill me. But one of the rules that Dad made sure I understood while teaching me to shoot squirrels in the backyard was that you never, _ever_ point a gun at another person unless you were absolutely ready to shoot them.

I am not ready. I know what a bullet can do to a human being. Not from personal experience, thank goodness, but I've done enough research. I've read the articles. I've seen the pictures. I even watched the video of Budd Dwyer killing himself on live television once. And even as fascinated as I am with morbid things, that last was a mistake.

Blood. So much blood. You'd never imagine that a human being could have so much of it pent up inside their body, but it just kept pouring out of him in an unending torrent.

And now here I am, in just the right position to pierce another human's flesh, tear muscle, fracture bone, and leave an exit wound that just won't stop bleeding. I should put the gun down, but I can't. I can't, or he might shoot me instead. And my hands are shaking so badly now that I might just accidentally pull the trigger if I try to do anything other than concentrating on holding as still as possible. What do I do _what do I-_

"Please!" the man says, his voice high and tight and penetrating the cloud around my thoughts for the first time. "I really must ask you to calm down, or someone is going to get hurt!"

The look on his thin face is one of genuine concern. He doesn't want to shoot me. He only lifted his weapon because I lifted mine.

_Settle the kettle, Daria. Settle the kettle._

Slowly, carefully, I lower my pistol and put on the safety. "I'm . . . sorry."

Breathing a sigh of relief, he sets his own weapon down on the desk he's sitting at. "Nothing to apologize for, my dear," he says. "You're understandably high-strung at the moment. Anyone would be under these circumstances. Why don't you have a seat, calm yourself further?"

I nod, accepting the seat he offers, a folding chair propped up across from him. As I take a moment to catch my breath, I also take a moment to look at my surroundings, which are lit dimly by two heavy candles sitting on the desk.

Besides the chairs we're sitting in and the teacher's desk between us, the only other furniture in the classroom is a large stack of more folding chairs sitting in the corner. The layout of the room is backward from the previous classroom in that the blackboard is on the back wall rather than sitting next to the entrance. Thankfully, the board is clear of any sort of message, written in blood or otherwise.

Survey done, I turn off my flashlight and study the man sitting before me. The most immediately striking thing about him is his shock of white hair, which looks like it's being swept back from his head by a high wind. His face, by contrast, appears to be free of lines, suggesting that he is younger than the color of his hair would lead one to believe. A pair of round rimless glasses sit perched on his sharp nose, and he is wearing what looks like the standard suit of an ivy league professor, elbow patches and all.

Once he sees that I'm finally calm and relaxed - or at least in a far better state than I was before - he reaches across the desk with his long, thin hand and says, "Greetings! I am Mordecai Kingsley."

I take his hand in mine and receive a dead fish grip that makes me want to wipe my palm afterward. "Melody Powers," I say in return.

He laughs briefly, high and nasal. "Ah, the power of a king is a wonderful thing!" he says, very pleased with himself.

He must be an English professor. Gotta be.

"Now that proper introductions have been made, Melody," he continues, "it would appear that you have been injured. Do you require any aid in patching your lacerations?"

I nudge the Health Drinks in my pocket with my elbow, reassuring myself that they're still there and intact. "No, thank you," I tell him. "They aren't deep."

"Ah, good. But one can't be too careful here, my dear!"

This is starting to feel uncomfortably like my time before with David. He's acting too helpful, too cheerful, and my paranoia is starting to tickle the back of my brain again. "Have you seen my cousin?" I suddenly blurt out, if for no other reason than to take control of the conversation. "Slightly taller than me, red hair, almost certainly wearing something pink?"

Mordecai blinks rapidly at the sudden change of topic. "Cousin?" he repeats, unsure. "Tall? Red? Pink? I'm afraid I haven't, not at all."

"How long have you been here?" I ask.

"Not too long." He is suddenly evasive. I don't like that. "It's hard to tell with a broken watch."

He holds the item on his wrist up for me to see that its face has been smashed in, the arms underneath unmoving. I ignore it. "Who are you? Are you a teacher here? What the hell is going on here? What is the deal with all these damn monsters? And why are all the people I meet in this damn fog grinning idiots who want to help me in every single way except the one that matters?"

I'm standing and leaning across the desk now, but I don't remember having gotten up from my chair. The fury that I can feel twisting my face must make me look somewhat monstrous, because Mordecai glances down at his pistol before looking back up at me with widened eyes.

"My my my," he says, his voice calmer than his expression, "so full of questions. I may have some answers for you, but I'm afraid that I am a little too nervous to give them while being simultaneously loomed over threateningly by a young lady with a gun in her hand."

As hesitant as I felt before about shooting him, I still feel the desire to at least smack him a couple of times with my tire iron, the smug prick.

_Calm down._

Right. Right. Calm down. Okay. I can do this. Gotta use those meager people skills. I settle back down into my seat and cross my arms.

"There, much better," he says soothingly. "Now, as I mentioned previously, I am Mordecai Kingsley. I _am_ a teacher of sorts, though not here at the school. While I haven't been there in quite some time now, my institution of learning is on the other side of the lake. In any case, me and my past are not nearly as important as your other question . . . 'What the hell is going on here?'"

He leans forward, puts his fingertips together, and takes a moment to collect his thoughts. "Silent Hill is what is going on here," he says. "Not the town itself, but the area in which it is located. I could go into the long, boring historical details, but suffice it to say that strange events have been taking place here for centuries. The most common of these occurrences would be the mysterious disappearances."

"Like my . . . cousin."

"Like _you_," he says. "And me. And whatever other grinning idiots you may have encountered thus far. This world of fog and mist, this is not the Silent Hill of the so-called 'real world'."

That should probably be more of a surprise to me, but it's not. David seeing the fog roll in three days before I even arrived in town makes more sense now. "Where are we, then?"

Mordecai shrugs. "It depends on who you ask, really," he says. "There are some who believe it to be the _true_ Silent Hill. There are others who would tell you it is but a stepping stone to that place. There are those who think of it as heaven and others who believe it to be hell."

"What do _you_ believe?"

"Does it matter?" he asks, a touch of sorrow in his voice. "I could give you any number of explanations. I could weave for you stories that range from the fantasy of a world of fey to a science-fiction laden tale of alternate universes. All it would do is give you a human perspective of something that _has no_ human perspective. I only understand a part of it myself, and even those parts I am unsure I could explain adequately. All I can tell you with any true assurance is that while this place is real, it is not _really_ real."

I shake my head. "That doesn't make any sense."

"And yet it is the best I can do," he tells me. "For now, at least. You have the look of someone traumatized by the town, but not the look of someone who has been traumatized _enough_ to understand anything more."

My brain doesn't quite want to process that. "There's _more?_" I ask, a plaintive whine entering my tone without my consent.

"I'm afraid so." He stands up and gives me a weary smile that is the exact opposite of comforting. "And I am further afraid that I must leave you to discover it on your own. I have already stayed in this place too long and must move on before I am found. Good day, Miss Powers. I wish you the best of luck in finding your cousin, and perhaps in finding yourself as well."

I try to protest, try to demand that he stay and give me the answers I need, but already my head is spinning and my energy feels drained from what he's already told me. I sit and watch helplessly as he puts his pistol in a holster matching the set on his other hip and picks up what looks like a 2x4 from behind the desk.

With a nod of farewell in my direction, Mordecai sets his makeshift club against his shoulder and whistles tunelessly as he strolls casually out the door.

I sit. I stare at the wall. I try to sort out everything that was said to me, try to make it make sense. But all I have are riddles that leave at least as many questions as they provide answers, and all from a source that I don't know if I can trust.

With a heavy head and limbs that feel like they've been filled with lead, I drag myself out of my chair and lift up my glasses to rub at my eyes. I won't get anywhere just sitting around, waiting for an epiphany that might never come. I have to find my own answers. I have to find Quinn.

I turn my flashlight back on and then blow out the candles. I still have a lot of school to cover, and it would be best if it isn't burning down around me while I do it.

The hallway is clear. No bruisers or razors in sight, so I step out and check both my ammo and my map. Eight bullets left and several rooms to mark. As I begin my search of the rooms again, it occurs to me that I should probably be checking the lockers as I pass, but I quickly dismiss the idea. Finding more stuff to aid me in my search would be good, but it would simply take too long and be too much trouble to try each locker individually. Apathy wins again.

It turns out I don't need to worry over it anyway because the third door I check opens up to a classroom mostly empty save for a single student's desk with a Health Drink and a full clip sitting on the table. There's also something grotesque carved into the faux wood grain surface, but I just down the drink and studiously ignore it.

I pass the halfway point of the school a few doors later and see that the center of the building is something of a small park area with a walkway that meets three others in the center, presumably to give easier access to the far sections of the school. There are a few concrete benches scattered alongside the paths, which are bordered by grass, bushes, and small trees, all of which look like they have seen better days.

My clothes have managed to dry out some, so I feel a little adventurous. I pull open the glass door that leads out into the commons area and feel the familiar wet slap of fog and light drizzle. The area is small enough at least that the mist is invisible to my eye, concealing nothing, but the rain itself is unimpeded, falling down from the grey sky above without pause or mercy.

Everything that should be green is instead a sickly yellow color. If I actually gave a damn about plants in general, I would probably be saddened by this environmentally desecrated display. But I'm not much of the Home & Garden Channel type of gal.

I sit down on one of the benches and my jeans and underwear are immediately soaked through. I didn't notice until I actually stepped outside just how stifling it was inside the building, however, so I find I don't really care. It actually feels a little refreshing out here, and I think my brain has settled down enough to try and handle at least one issue that Mordecai brought up.

This place isn't really real, but it is still a place and we are actually here. But that's the thing that's bothering me now. Who is "we", exactly? Me, Mordecai, and David. But what about Quinn? What proof have I actually seen that she's in this crazy Fog World with me?

I reach into my jeans pocket, pull out her scrunchie, and look at it hard. It's definitely hers, as is the phone sitting in my jacket, but just because one or two of her belongings are here doesn't necessarily mean she is too. Am I actually looking for Quinn, or am I just chasing shadows? This little bit of elastic and cloth might not even be hers but another creation from my own mind, like the harpy. Maybe I should just give up the search and work on saving myse-

_No._

No. No, I'm not going to do that. I have to keep looking for her. If she's here, I'll find her. If she's not, then at least I'll be able to mark off the school as a possible way out. I can serve both purposes at the same time. Easy.

I put the scrunchie back in my pocket and stand up. The path ahead of me runs up to a door that opens close to where I left that razor, so I'll just file it under "look here last". The left path points toward the back of the school, which presumably I'll end up at anyway if I continue following the hallway inside. The path to my right, on the other hand, should lead up to the office at the front of the school. I didn't see any doors leading to the outside when I was there last, but it might still be worth a look.

As those idiots I used to know in Highland would say: Score. The path comes to more or less a dead end, but that dead end includes windows. A small brass sign is bolted into the wall between the two windows, warning the kids not to be too loud so as to avoid disturbing the people on the other side, but I somehow doubt it's ever taken seriously or enforced effectively.

Heck, smashing the windows open with a tire iron is probably frowned upon as well, but it doesn't stop me from doing it.

I step through the resulting empty space and onto glass-strewn carpet. Before it went all Fog World-y, this was probably a pretty nice office. A degree in education and a teaching license sit on the wall along with several framed commendations and pictures of a balding man shaking hands with various people, most likely alumni that have gone on to accomplish big things.

In Silent Hill, I'm guessing one of the biggest accomplishments is to not get killed by creatures from beyond the veil.

Bookshelves covered with books, filing cabinets filled with files. I skim over them quickly, but nothing jumps out at me, literally or figuratively. For convenience's sake, I pop the lock on the door as I pass by the door, and thankfully it's agreeable enough to snap open without any trouble. Never know when I might need to make a quick exit this way. Two paintings flank the door, so I step back to give them a quick examination.

Huh. From the looks in the pictures of him shaking hands with folks, Principal Generic seems like a pretty bland guy. Certainly not as colorful a character as my own former high school principal, Ms. Angela "Guilty Until Proven Suspended" Li. These paintings, though . . . they do not bespeak a rational mind.

The one on the left is fire. Almost literally that, just fire, with only just enough dark patches around the edges to serve as a reference point so I know what I'm looking at. I'd call the whatzit in the middle the only other visible thing in the picture, but "visible" would be a bit strong of a word in this case. I think it might be humanoid, but it's too obscured by the flames licking up around it to be sure.

The other painting is of a waterfall, but the "water" is a deep and disgusting shade of green, looking almost as if it was covered with grimy lichen. There is a filthy pool of sludge at the bottom, from which a tiny hand emerges to claw at the air. The patches of blue-green mottling the skin make me feel nauseous just looking at them.

I'm so absorbed in the subjects of the paintings themselves that I almost miss the small plaques sitting underneath them. I crouch down so I can read them.

_The cleansing Fire of Heaven  
shall Purify the Innocent_

The stagnant Waters of Hell  
shall Putrefy the Damned

Riiiiiight. _Koo-koo!_

My last stop is the principal's desk. A small framed picture of him, his wife, and his kids sit staring at me with dour expressions, so I turn it face down before I start rummaging. The surface is otherwise covered in office supplies and a huge desk calendar that doesn't seem to have anything of interest written on it, so I pass it all over. The computer doesn't turn on, so it's obviously a bust.

The first drawer I open, however, reveals more office supplies and, right in the middle of the paper clips, a key. I pick it up by the keychain, a small white circle with the word "GYM" written on it. Idly flipping the circle over reveals that the other side has been hastily marked with a big red "Q".

I rub my thumb across the letter, and the ink smudges. It's still fresh.

Paydirt.

Checking the school map shows me that the gym is a separate building on the north side of the school grounds. There's a door leading outside in the northwest corner of the school, which to me is still uncomfortably close to the northeast corner where I left the razor. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. At least that's what people with motivation tell me.

I break the other window to get back out into the commons. Not because I have to, of course. Just because I feel like smashing some windows. I'm having a bad day, so I figure I'm entitled to a little random destruction to help loosen the nerves.

Instead of cutting left to go back to where I left off inside, I continue walking straight ahead. Searching from room to room might scare up some more supplies, but if Quinn is actually waiting for me in the gym as my mystery clue-planter is leading me to believe, then I might be able to just jump in there, grab her up, and get the heck out of here.

It can't possibly be that simple, but come on. Allow a woman a little optimism.

I stand at the door, peering in through the glass and waiting for my phone to kick on, but the coast remains clear. The door opens easily, and I step into the muggy heat within. Walking to the end of the corridor proves uneventful, but I still very carefully peek around the corner once I reach it. If the razor is still down there, it's far away on the other end, unlikely to catch me as I try to cross over to the exit, no matter how fast it might be. I side-step across the hall anyway, pistol ready for anything, then push the lever down on one of the double doors. Back in the damp fog, almost as if I'd never left.

A small paved road passes between the school and the gym. It leads back to a green square on my map, which I assume is the football field. I can't see it because of the mist, which is fine because I really don't care to. The way everyone fawned over the football team back at Lawndale High would have been more than enough to put me off football fields forever, even if I hadn't already been weary of them and everything else sports-related from Highland.

I look both ways before crossing the path, half expecting to see a bruiser or a runner come charging at me. When I get to the other side, I look up at my objective, a large white building with several heavy double doors sitting in the facade. None of them appear to have an outside latch, so I decide to circle around until I find another entrance.

Right seems to be as good a direction to turn as any, and what little luck I must have pays off as a small side door quickly comes into view. I pull out the key and turn it in the lock, which thankfully pops right open. Slipping inside I find myself standing next to a huge row of bleachers.

I step around them and up to the edge of the basketball court that takes up most of the building. It's reasonably well lit under the circumstances, with outside light filtering in through massive windows several yards above the top rows of the bleachers. I can see several doors on the other side of the building, undoubtedly leading to changing rooms, showers, weight rooms, and coach's offices. Several banners hang from the walls, each one celebrating the accomplishments of the school's various sports teams, collectively known as the Munson Fightin' Lizards.

And right next to me, sitting propped up between one row of the bleachers and another, is a metal baseball bat.

There's no blood on it or puddled under it. It doesn't have Satanic messages scribbled along the sides. It isn't festooned with spikes. It has no oddities to speak of, in fact, which makes it extra suspicious. But hey, it's got more reach on it than a tire iron, so I reach out, pick it up, and swing it lightly with my left hand. My right still holds the pistol, which I keep up as I step out further onto the court.

"_Quinn?_" I yell, my voice echoing back to me from the high ceiling. "_Quiiiiiinn?_"

Nothing. Maybe she's in the back somewhere. My boots squeak slightly as I walk across the court, then make a sharp _clack_ as I kick something and send it sliding across the floor. After making sure nothing is sneaking up on me from anywhere, I crouch down to see what it is.

An old Zippo lighter, scratched and worn from being dropped repeatedly and lovingly picked back up. All black except for a set of engraved flames along the edges, which reminds me a little of the painting in the principal's office. I set down my new bat then pick the lighter up, open it, and flick the wheel to create a thick flame.

I close the lighter, snuffing the flame, and frown deeply. The random item gods are being especially nice to me. I don't personally believe in karma so much, but I think Silent Hill just might, and it's almost definitely keeping tabs. I stuff the lighter in my back jeans pocket, pick up my bat, and proceed even more carefully than before.

I get to the middle of the court when I finally hear something in the distance. I freeze in my tracks and wait as the sound gets louder and louder, then fades away. And there it is again, louder this time, rising to and holding one long note before fading away to nothing.

A siren. Like the kind used to warn people about air raids or bad weather. I remember hearing the one they had in Highland go off more than once due to tornadoes blowing through the area.

I don't like it. There's something sinister about the noise, as if it's not trying to warn anybody but to taunt them. To taunt me. It continues to rise in pitch with each swell until it sounds like it's almost right outside the buil-

_Fuck shit damn!_

The ground shifts unexpectedly out from under me, and I get tossed off my feet to land on my ass hard. I manage to keep hold of my bat and pistol, but at the cost of banging my right elbow against the hard tile. To my surprise, the flooring splinters and shatters around my arm, flying up into the air. I didn't hit it _that_ hard!

As I try to get back up, the rest of the floor suddenly joins its inexplicably exploding section as another jolt shakes everything under me. I manage to stay up on one knee and have to throw my arms up to protect my face from the flying splinters. When things seem to start calming down, I pull my arms down and gawk as I get back on my feet.

Everything around me has either changed or is in the process of doing so. The floor is primarily made up of metal plates colored a deep, flaking red and bolted to the ground with ridiculously thick bolts. A few patches appear to either be missing or have flimsy chain link spanning them. I can't see what might be under those, and the sudden feeling of dread rising in my chest tells me I probably don't want to.

The backboards of the hoops on either side of the court explode, sending glass flying outward to scatter across this strange new floor. The hoops themselves curl up toward the ceiling, becoming little more than twisted snarls of rusty metal. Whole sections of the bleachers collapse, and those that are left become purely metal instead of the original wood and concrete. The seats, uncomfortable looking before, now look downright sadistic, a metal mesh surface with several obviously sharp edges sticking upward.

The windows are mostly gone, either covered with metal plates like those on the floor or replaced by giant rusted out industrial fans that slowly rotate in an unfelt wind. The ceiling . . .

The ceiling is gone, covered in a blanket of darkness. Looking around in panic, I can see that the darkness isn't content to stay up there and is almost trickling down as if it were liquid to fill in the spaces around me. Soon the far walls are no longer visible and the stands are disappearing one row at a time. This fog of anti-light clamps down around me like a fist, a fist that I can feel tightening around my heart as well.

It stops right at the edge of my flashlight's strong beam, then has the audacity to try and encroach on even it. A thin whine escapes my lips.

"No, no, no, _no, no, no_ . . . "

Please don't leave me in the dark, please don't take my light away, I'm not afraid of the dark, really I'm not, but I'm afraid of whatever this is, so please, please, please don't do this to me, just _stop!_

As if the dark could actually hear me and decided to be merciful, if only for the moment, it stops. The cone of light coming from the flashlight doesn't seem to reach out quite as far as before, but it's still there. Seeing this, I allow myself a moment of sobbing relief as tears trickle down my cheeks.

My relief is short-lived as the phone suddenly kicks hard enough to almost jump out of its pocket. A second later I'm nearly blinded as all the light I could ever want suddenly slams straight into my eye sockets. I throw up my gun hand and use it to shield my eyes, but even though that blocks my sight, it doesn't keep me from hearing. A low growl fills the air around me, one that causes chills to travel up and down my spine as my stomach tries to decide which way it wants to explosively empty its contents.

Slowly lowering my hand, I squint into the light and see that it is in fact two separate lights, slightly squarish and sitting roughly a yard apart from each other. I have to look up slightly to see this, as they also sit a good two or three feet above my head.

My stomach finally concludes that up is definitely the way to go, and I just barely choke back the bile. Something about this is so . . . familiar. Something about . . . this . . . is . . .

_RUN._


	6. Alternate School

Yes, running would seem to be the appropriate option here, thank you.

I turn and can almost see the light from my own flashlight again, almost but not quite flooded out by the monster lights behind me. Thankfully the rusted metal under my boots gives me more traction than the basketball court would have. I'm having enough trouble as it is getting both of my feet to head in the same direction instead of just flying off of my ankles and fleeing for separate corners of the gym.

In between the pounding generated by my attempted escape, I can hear the growling behind me grow even louder, and now it's accompanied by a scrape, a scrape, a scraping noise. I don't want to look back, _can't_ look back, but somehow I know that this means its moving, coming after me, intent on doing something horrible.

And I am absolutely certain that I won't be able to stop it if it catches me.

I hit the double doors at a dead run, then bounce off and fall to the ground, stunned. Another heavy scrape coming in my direction gets me back up and on my feet. Pain is temporary. That thing is something else. Suffering and misery and agonizing torture and I have to get out and I have to get out _now_.

The door's handle slams against the door itself when I kick it, but it has no effect. I can hear the mechanism inside working, but it remains stubbornly shut. There was nothing outside holding it closed, so I squeeze the panic down and look over the inside of the door as calmly but as quickly as I can.

Two latches, one at the top of the door and one at the bottom. They're in the locked position, holding firmly in the door frame. I try to put the safety on my pistol, but my fingers are spazzing out. With a snarl of frustration, I turn and fire at the thing slowly rolling up behind me, emptying the clip entirely and then continuing to pull the trigger several times after all I'm getting are empty clicks.

I'm not sure exactly how many bullets came out, but only two actually hit the thing, ricocheting in a shower of sparks. Neither of them hit those damnable lights, so I still can't see what's on the other side.

Doesn't matter. Don't need to, don't want to.

The pistol's slide is still sitting in the open position, but I shove it in the holster anyway. I kick at the bottom latch, and after a few tries it goes all the way up and locks into place. I reach up to grab onto the top latch and scream when I can't quite reach it.

I'm too short! I'm going to be caught and tortured and torn to pieces all because I'm too damn short and that's not even fucking _fair!_

"AaaaaaRRRRRRAAAAH! _Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!_"

With each curse, I smash at the latch with the baseball bat. I don't know if it will do anything, but damn it feels good. Aside from the shocks traveling down the length of the bat and into my hands, making my fingers go gradually numb with each strike, it feels _great_.

As the lights get closer, I start swinging the bat faster and faster until my upper arms and shoulders begin to ache and I can't feel anything below my elbows. My throat is getting raw from spitting and swearing and shouting and pleading until finally, with one last swing, I knock the latch completely off, sending the door flying open.

Without stopping to wonder how little, non-athletic me managed such a feat, I do a bit of my own flying, straight out of the building and face first into a fence.

I almost drop the bat as I scrabble my hands along the chain-link. Looking past it, I can see a veritable maze of the stuff sitting before me, stretching off into the dark that has apparently settled down around the entire school. This wasn't here before.

"_This wasn't here before!_" I scream, rattling the fence.

I step back and swing the bat hard. All I get for my trouble is that peculiar rattling noise that only chain-link fences can make. I look back and forth, trying to determine which way I should run, but it all looks the same. Right worked out for me last time I picked randomly, so this time . . . left.

Screw you, Silent Hill. I've got your number this time.

I run straight into the walls at every turn, and each time it happens I can feel my chest tighten up a little more with fear. But I can't slow down. I can't bash my way through. I can't even climb over thanks to the razorwire that's strung along the entire length of the fence, keeping the rat firmly in the maze.

I can see the school! I thought I'd never be so happy to see a high school again, especially one that I already know is filled with monsters. But at least the monsters here I can deal with. I pull the doors open, rush inside, and then skid to a stop in the middle of the hall.

My breath comes in ragged wheezes and my everything feels like it's on fire. The phone in my pocket is completely still, however, so at least I'm safe for the moment. Maybe the thing behind me got tangled up in the maze. Maybe it decided not to follow me at all. Maybe it can't leave the gym. Maybe it's just too slow and will catch up with me later. I don't know and I don't care right now. All I know is I finally understand what people mean when they say they need a drink.

In the absence of alcohol, I pull out one of my Health Drinks and slam it down my throat. No, I don't give a damn if I'm not actually hurt. If there's another motherfucker just aching to jump out at me by surprise, I need to be alert and ready to smack the fucking shit out of it.

Hey, listen to foul-mouthed little Daria. One little sanity-wrecking incident and suddenly she's swearing like John McClane. But to be fair, at the moment I wish I could channel even more of Mr. Die Hard. And with that in mind, I finish my drink, toss down the empty can, and reload my pistol.

There's a wall in front of me that wasn't there before, blocking off access to the back hallway. The floors and ceiling are made up of bolted metal plates. There are still lockers lining the walls in places, but they're even rustier and busted up than before, several of them sporting broken doors or no doors at all. Where there aren't any lockers, I can see some kind of exposed machinery. Huge gears, haphazard wiring, pumps and pistons, all of it in various states of disrepair. The darkness isn't quite as oppressive as before, but it still presses down around me, obscuring anything further than my flashlight beam.

The school has changed, just like the gym. And if things here are anything like they were there, then changes are bad. Very bad. Bat in one hand and freshly loaded pistol in the other, I slowly start walking down the hallway.

With every step forward, I regret more and more having left that razor alive. If it's still down here, it might be back in hiding, waiting for me. I don't know if these things are smart enough to recognize concepts like revenge, or even if it has enough capacity to remember me at all, but I don't like the possibility of a killer monster with a grudge.

So perhaps an alternate route is in order. I reach the entrance to the commons area and find that oh. No. That's not going to work.

I wouldn't say that outside of the school is brighter than the inside of the school. It's more like the outside is simply not quite as dark. This less-darkness allows me to see most everything out there, and what I see isn't promising.

The grass and the small trees and bushes outside hadn't been particularly sprightly looking, but at least they had been grass and trees and bushes. Now the commons is nothing but metal like everything else. The benches are still there, but they look like they can give you tetanus just by standing near them let alone sitting on them.

But the change that has me reconsidering not just my alternate route but taking any more routes at all is the addition of a bruiser slowly stomping its way up and down the paths. What's more, rather than the simple, shootable bone plating its brother had, this nasty piece of work has something that looks more like a train's cowcatcher bolted to the front of it. Its sides, back, and front all appear to have several smaller metal plates grafted to them as well, turning it into a fairly literal walking tank.

I _might_ be able to put it down with my pistol. I might be able to get from one side of the commons to the other unnoticed if I timed it right. But I'm not exactly thrilled with my chances with either plan. The thing laboriously turns around and starts marching back along the path its on, almost as if it's some kind of military guard, so I decide that the best way out is the most direct one.

My shoulders begin to twitch from the intensity with which I am holding my gun. If the razor does pop out of somewhere, I'm not entirely certain whether I'll end up shooting it or pistol-whipping it. Maybe a combination of both.

Or perhaps neither. I reach the spot where I had left the corpse of the bruiser I killed, but it's no longer there. No trace that it ever was remains, at least as far as I can see through the vertical, tightly-spaced metal bars blocking my way.

Okay, so I've learned something valuable here. It isn't just that new things have been placed in my way. Old things have also been taken away. Or perhaps it's something more than that. Mordecai clued me in on the fact that the real world hadn't changed, but instead I had been taken to a sort of separate reality, the Fog World. Logically, I think I can assume that it's happened again and I have been taken to some other world that is as removed from the fog as the fog is from the regular world.

Welcome to the third circle of Silent Hell, Daria Morgendorffer. Abandon all hope.

Very high on the list of downsides stemming from this new transportation is the fact that the markings I've been making on my map are completely useless now. At least the map itself should be helpful. Maybe there's some different hallway or something that I just didn't see befo-

Huh. Would you look at that. Except for the emergency routes that had already been drawn in when I got it, the school map is completely clear of all my notations. Clean and clear as the moment I pulled it down from the wall. As great as all these coincidences are, they're starting to creep me out even more now that they're taking place inside my very own pockets.

Oh, well. I take out my marker and draw in the new wall to the west, the bars in front of me, and the metal bruiser in the courtyard. By my reckoning, the only possibly open path I have left to me is the commons. It just happens to be really, really dangerous.

Resigning myself to trying to sneak past a tank with only a whacking stick and a peashooter to defend myself with, I start backtracking. And since I'm going into the belly of the beast, so to speak, I figure I might as well start checking rooms for supplies again. The first door I come across opens easily and I step into a room full of crazy.

A single desk and chair combo sit in the very middle of the classroom. Unlike everything else in the school, it seems almost pristine, showing no signs of wear or tear other than what you would normally expect on a high school desk. It is a beacon of sanity amongst a sea of mind-breaking madness.

The walls are covered. The ceiling, the floor. Every surface has the same word on it, repeated over and over again, overlapping in some places until it seems nothing more than a dense scribbling of black ink. But not all of them are written in ink. Some are the slightly dripping red of blood. Others have been carved directly into the plaster and tile. But all of them the same word.

_whispers_

There's a hole in the east wall. I run through it, heedless of what might be on the other side.

This classroom is relatively normal, thank goodness, all except for the standardized remodeling and the gurney sitting in the corner. A filled body bag sits atop it, greenish blood oozing out and onto the padding. Though I feel I probably shouldn't, I slide over to the corner farthest from the gurney and put my back against it while I catch my bearings. At least from here I can watch it, the hole in the wall, and the exit back out into the hallway all at the same time.

Something about the room on the other side of that hole . . . hell, something about everything that's happened to me so far. But while I was in there, I was _afraid_. At least with the thing in the gym, I could place my fear on something, but this time it felt formless, not centered around anything in particular, like fear itself was crawling into me from the outside.

"I hate this place," I say aloud.

It probably won't be the last time I do so.

But as much as I hate it, I have to deal with it. The room I'm in is the evil twin of the one I was in before with the broken desks and the creepy message on the blackboard. Blackboard and message are gone, for which I'm thankful. The desks are still here, but no longer broken. Though that might be only because they're being held together with barbed wire. I don't feel like touching any of them to find out for sure.

Opening the door to the hall is difficult with both my hands full, but I manage. It looks much the same out here as it did before, only now the bars aren't in the way of the view. I'm just about to turn and continue on my way when suddenly my phone starts to twitch.

Pistol up, hammer cocked, I stare down the corridor and wait for something hideous to poke whatever it has in place of a head around the nearby corner. Seconds pass by until they add up to a full minute, but nothing happens and the twitch stays at the same level.

Sweat stings my eye. Damn it's hot in here, even worse than before. I think I'm ready for another run around in the chilly fog.

Forget this. Waiting is for chumps. I take a step forward and the phone dies.

I look over my shoulder, but there's nothing behind me on either side of the bars. There wasn't anything in the room I just left, and the phone had been still the entire time I scurried through the whisper room like a frightened rabbit. So what-

Oh, right. The razor had been hiding in one of the lockers over there. Maybe there's another one? But then, why is the signal so faint? Why is there even a signal at all when the last time it just burst out without any real warning? Something's off about this.

Between us, Jane and I have probably watched every single horror movie ever made. I know how stupid it is to walk into such an obvious trap. I've always bemoaned the stupidity of the sorority girl who just _has_ to go over to the window and peek outside. The security guard who walks through the darkened hallway to check on the mysterious noise. The hapless teenager who turns to see what that sound was behind them in the empty alleyway.

But now I know how they feel. Curiosity is a strong thing, sometimes enough to trump even the most rational mind. My feet carry me over to the lockers, I lean my bat against the bottom row, and I slowly reach out to open the only closed door. If not for the steady pulse of the phone in my jacket pocket, I could probably hear my own heart knocking against my rib cage.

The rusty locker door opens with a faint creak. I step back and put both hands on the butt of the gun, but all that happens is the phone falls silent. Moving back in, my flashlight illuminates a crumpled brown backpack, a pistol clip, three shotgun shells, and a shotgun to go with them.

I disarm my pistol and holster it. Then I pick up the bat and poke at the backpack. The expected swarm of cockroaches or spiders or God knows what else doesn't happen despite repeated jabs, so I reach out and pick it up.

The pack looks like standard fare for a trendy high school student from a decade or two ago. Sturdy fake leather, several large pockets along the back and sides, and topped with a button flap. A thorough search proves it to be empty, but that's just fine with me. As long as it isn't planning to eat whatever I put inside it - including my hands, of course - then I could definitely use the extra carrying space.

I set the bag down and proceed to empty out the contents of my pockets. The tire iron, while replaced by the bat as a weapon, might come in handy later, so I take it from my belt loop and place it inside. The gym key and broken hall pass, both pretty much useless, follow suit, as does the more useful town map, marker, and one remaining Health Drink.

The scrunchie I pull out and look at. It's frilly-looking like most scrunchies, of course, but at least it's a somewhat palatable navy blue color. I've gotten a little tired of my hair flapping in my face from time to time, so I pull it back and tie it into a ponytail. I'm sure Quinn will give me grief for stretching it out or something, but y'know what? She'll get over it. Or . . . maybe I'll just buy her a new one. Whatever.

I put the extra clip from the locker into one of the side pockets, then pick up the shotgun. It's a short-barreled pump action model that loads from underneath and has a strap dangling from its ends. I crouch and work the pump until it empties six shells onto the ground. I pick one up and look at the front to find that they're buckshot rather than slugs, meaning I won't have to aim as well but I'll have to be close to my target for it to be effective.

Dad taught me a little about shotguns, too. Not as much as rifles or handguns, but apparently they didn't focus on shotguns as much at his military school. At least the buckshot spread should help make up for any inadequacies in my training.

I reload the six shells and then try a seventh from the locker just to make sure it's at capacity, which it is, so the other three go in the backpack. I slide the baseball bat in last and close the flap around it so the handle will be sticking out over my right shoulder. After slinging the pack and shotgun on, I adjust the straps and get back on track.

This feels much better, honestly. I hate having heavy crap swinging around in my pockets, and now I've got room for more junk. Score one for Team Morgendorffer.

Only a few classrooms separate me from the front office, and all of them turn out to be either locked or rusted shut. The office door itself I pass by for the moment. A chain-link fence blocks access to the front doors, which doesn't surprise me at all. I try to rattle it but it doesn't rattle, which does surprise me a little bit. It's solid, tight, and I get the feeling that a pair of wire clippers won't help me here.

Leaving is for later anyway. I've yet to find evidence that Quinn is somewhere other than one or another version of this school, so I've still got a little searching to do. I walk up to the office window and try to peer in through the now-scratched and scarred glass. Like before, it appears to be mostly empty. The desks have been replaced by fold-out tables, and a Health Drink sits on one of them.

Trap?

Trap.

So let's spring the trap. I need to give this shiny new shotgun a test run anyway.

The door is open, just as I assumed it would. The phone sits still, but I proceed carefully anyway, watching every shadowy corner for the slightest hint of movement. The Health Drink sits almost in the middle of the room, bait of the most obvious sort. I stand over it and look around once more before reaching out to pick it up.

_hh hh hh hh_

I pull my hand back and wrap it around the hilt of the gun, finger on the trigger and safety off. I stand and wait for the phone to start vibrating, pricking my ears. The sound doesn't immediately repeat, but my nerves are still wound tight. I'm almost ready to start praying that something happens, just to release the tension if nothing else.

Wait. There. Gas escaping. Intermittent. The soft squeal of metal against metal. A chugging of sorts. All faint, but recognizable. I can't pinpoint where it's coming from, so I begin a slow circle of the room. I think I can feel my phone start to kick at one point, but I can't be sure. Whatever I'm hearing, it must be pretty far off, possibly in another room.

Which isn't exactly comforting considering I can still hear whatever it is. Something big, maybe. Definitely loud. Will it burst through the wall when I pick the can up? Fine, let's find out.

I toss the Health Drink lightly into the air, then shove it under the flap of my pack. The sound is gone now, but thankfully it simply faded away instead of disappearing the second I grabbed the drink. My psyche is already stretched a bit thin, and I'm not sure whether or not that would've been the thing that made it snap. It's bad enough that this messed up world is making me see traps everywhere, even where there aren't any.

I check the back office doors quickly, and they're as locked as their fog versions. So, back out into the hall and around the corner where the phone begins to vibrate and I see a massive fireball bearing straight down on me.

Early Warning System + Already Hyped Up Nervous System = Still Living Daria.

I belatedly bemoan landing on my shoulder, which is still a little sore from the last desperate dodge I made, but at least it's better than being barbecued all the way down to the bone. Of course, the smell of singed hair and the sting of an instant sunburn on my left cheek isn't all that great either.

_hh hh hh hh hh hh_

Well, at least I know where that sound was coming from now. Very very carefully, I shuffle over to the corner, poke my head around, and pull it back. There's no second attack, just more of the huffing noise, so I take a longer look.

Two bright flames flicker up toward the ceiling from the back of a new monster, illuminating it clearly where it sits in the middle of the hall. But even though it's new, I recognize it. After a fashion. It's the Fightin' Lizard, the school mascot I saw back in the gym, albeit with a number of twisted alterations. Besides the fire and smokestacks coming out of its back, its skin is gnarled and disgusting, its face is an ugly croc-like lump, and it has two of them.

Faces, I mean. Each with their own individual head sprouting from twin necks off the main body. As I watch, each head takes individual turns opening its fang-filled mouth to suck in air. With each huff, its body expands a little and the fires on its back get a little higher and brighter. It-

Oh. _Ooooh._

I pull my head back as they open their mouths at the same time and let out a massive stream of fire each. What I thought was a fireball before turns out to be more like two flamethrowers crossing streams and filling up the entire corridor. I have to roll away from the flame to keep from getting singed again, but as soon as it clears out, I'm up on my feet and running down the hall.

_hh hh hh hh hh hh hh hh hh hh h-_

Just as the head on the right is pulling in a particularly large breath, I stop right in front of it, place the butt of my shotgun against my shoulder, and fill the gaping pink maw with buckshot. The sound nearly deafens me in the relatively enclosed space and the recoil doesn't do my arm any favors, but the lizard clamps its mouth shut, a look of dull surprise in its stupid cow eyes.

The left head opens up for its own round of fire-stoking, so I take a step over, pump out the empty shell, and give it the same treatment. It clamps shut as well, looking just as surprised. The analytical part of my brain distantly begins to lecture the rest of me on how the lizard's brains - such as they are - must not be directly connected and they therefore don't learn from the other's mistakes.

Apparently they don't learn from their own, either. The right head opens up again with a _hh hh hh_, and I shut it again just as quickly. This time they both stay closed, but the flames on their back are still getting hotter and brighter as their sides continue to expand. That can't be good.

I back away as quickly as I can, gun still up and ready just in case they open their big fat mouths again. I stop when the fires suddenly reach a high point and then stop growing. The sides similarly stop expanding, and it looks like the creature might actually be able to hold. This theory gathers more strength when it looks like the lizard is starting to deflate.

"Oh no you _don't_," I snarl at the creature as I aim at its back. With another mighty _BOOM_, I let fly a spread of buckshot that peppers the sides of the lizard's faces and tears away the skin along its back like a thresher being used to grate cheese. I can just barely hear the sound of lead shot spanging up against and through metal.

Steam and smoke pour out of the wound, and suddenly the expansion is back on. As spectacular as it's probably going to get, I don't really think it's the best idea to stick around, so I turn and hightail it for the corner just as a real fireball lights up the hallway.

Once all the commotion is done and over with, I walk back out into the south hall. Small fires are burning here and there where the lizard's flesh has fallen. Small pieces of machinery clank and jangle under my feet as I walk along, almost certainly pieces of the beast's fire-breathing apparatus.

I stop briefly in the blackened center of the blast crater to pat myself on the back. I managed to handle the situation with only minor injury and without freaking out too much. I think I might finally be getting used to this monster-killing gig.

Or maybe it's just that no double-headed lizard could compare to that thing in the gym. Even though the crater is hotter than the rest of the hellish school, a cold shiver runs through my body at the thought. So, eyes on the prize, Morgendorffer.

I turn into the nearest classroom, its door having been blown straight off by the explosion. Inside I find five shotgun shells sitting in a row along the edge of a desk. I reload the shotgun and throw the extra shell into my pack with the rest. A Health Drink sits in the corner of the room as well, so I retrieve and store it while ignoring the crucified corpse hanging from the back wall. Which is hard to do considering it seems to be twitching slightly.

Truth be told, I'm starting to feel a little twitchy myself. My mysterious benefactor, if I actually do have one, seems to be getting extra generous again. And we all remember what happened the last time, don't we, kiddies?

I pass by the door to the commons area and look out to see the metal bruiser still marching its merry way around. From the looks of things, I might not have to head out there at all to see the rest of the school, but I do have to wonder if that means he's guarding something special. Maybe if I break into the principal's office this time, there'll be a bazooka or something waiting for me.

. . . nah. It's not worth it. I might be able to take it down with the shotgun tearing at the flesh between the plates, but it wouldn't be like the bruiser in the hall. This one has more room to maneuver. I'll just leave it be for now.

According to the map, the cafeteria is at the end of the hall and makes up about half of the western side of the school. Which sounds a bit large for a school this size, but it looks to be the same size as the classrooms in one dimension, making it something like a slightly wider parallel hallway. At least searching it shouldn't be hard, providing I can get in.

A set of double doors sit in the corner, and neither door has handles. Well now, that's just poor design, I think. I give them a kick on principle and move on to the next set, whereupon I slow my pace. It looks like Silent Hill is throwing yet another curve ball my way, and I'm not sure what to make of it.

The doors themselves look normal. Unlike the previous pair, these at least have the press-lever style handles, signifying that ideally, they _can_ be opened. But along with the handles, they also have two orbs, one attached to each door at about belly-height and neither of them looking like they belong at all.

The one on the right is metal, just like everything else, but it's silvery and clean, looking like an over-sized doorknob. The one on the left appears to be made out of wood, dark brown and perfectly smooth. They're approximately the size of a grapefruit, and they're making me nervous.

Making sure that I'm only touching the wooden grip, I touch the barrel of my shotgun against the metal orb. No sparks fly off, so it's not electrified. No alarms go off, no fire-breathing lizards appear. A tap against the wooden orb is similarly lacking in reaction. I try one of the handles, and though the lever depresses like it should if the door was unlocked, I can't get it to pull open. Or push open, or anything.

Did I mention before that I hate this place?

This town has only made things worse, but really, I hate high school in general already. I wasn't too fond of school at all to begin with, and then I spent my freshman year at Highland High School and my opinion shot straight down into depths of hell that even this place can't really touch.

The worst part was probably having to deal with those two idiots. I'd had some contact with them before, but unfortunately it seemed that I just couldn't get away from them at all that year. Sure, I found their antics amusing at times, and on occasion I even found their stupidity useful. But overall they were an annoyance and a frustrating reminder of the worst parts of humanity.

I seriously think that Beavis and the aptly named Butt-head are the ones that caused me to have so much trouble trusting people. They definitely contributed to my poor opinion of others, especially boys. By the time my family moved to Lawndale, I was more than willing to simply close up in my own little shell, and in retrospect it's no wonder that I got put in that damn self-esteem class.

Lawndale was better than Highland, at least, but even still there was so much wrong with it. The constantly ongoing popularity contest. The callous disregard for others. The promotion of athletic ability over intellectual capacity. The insane policies set forth by a tyrant principal, almost all of them seemingly engineered specifically to make things harder on students and faculty both. Even a lot of the good stuff have some sinister undertone, an underlying feeling of desperation and futility. Every victory would feel like one step forward and two back.

I think back on the room with the desks and chairs twisted and broken from someone trying to bash their way out, and suddenly I realize that I know exactly how they must have felt.

With a sigh of frustration, I step back until my pack presses up against the wall, then I slide down to sit on the floor with a muffled _tack!_

What the hell was that?

I stand back up and reach into my back jeans pocket to pull out the engraved lighter I picked up in the gym. I stare at it in surprise for a second. I had completely forgotten about it when I was switching everything out to the backpack, but now it's lit the figurative light bulb above my head. The orbs are a puzzle, and I already have the key.

I flick the lighter to life and hold it under the wooden orb. It takes a few minutes, but the wood finally catches and the flames begin to lick up its polished sides. I then turn to the metal orb and-

Uh-oh.

The paintings back in the principal's office were the clue to this little puzzle. One of them showcased fire while the other was all about water. Fire was easy, but water? My clothes have long since become bone dry, and I'm not really sure I want to crack open a Health Drink on the chance that it'll be wasted if it doesn't work. I haven't seen any water fountains in this version of the school, and I get the feeling that even if there is one further down this hall, it probably won't work anyway.

"Dammit!" I spit out, then the little light bulb turns on again.

I grew up in Texas where supposedly everyone carries around their own personal spittoon, yeehaw, but I've never been much of a spitter myself. Quinn would probably start retching if she knew I did this as part of my attempts to find her, but it has to be done. I gather a bit of saliva in my mouth, lean over the metal orb, and drop a big wad of spit on its shiny surface.

Hey, it's the only source of water I've got on me, unless I wanted to try crying on the damn thing. And it fits with the whole "putrefy" theme the painting had going on. And, lucky for me, it works. A solid sounding _clunk_ comes from behind the doors, and pulling the handle this time works like a charm. I put the lighter back in my jeans pocket and step inside.

The first thing I notice is that everywhere I turn my flashlight, the room appears to be empty. The second thing I notice is a crunching, slurping noise coming from somewhere in the darkness. The phone buzzes lightly, and I decide to follow its trail. Better to go ahead and face whatever nasty thing is waiting for me.

And "nasty" is definitely the word for it. The closer I get, the more the sound becomes recognizable as that of eating, and whatever is making the scarfing noises has little to no table manners whatsoever. I remember from my dream what it sounds like when a harpy is feeding, and this definitely isn't that. That was mostly dry, the cracking of bones along with the tearing of flesh. This is wet. Sloppy. Like half-rotten fall leaves gathered after a heavy rainstorm and forced through a garbage disposal.

Two wide, empty door frames appear ahead of me. I step through cautiously and find that they lead to the lunch line, the counters looking more or less like they should save for the extra helping of rust covering their metal surfaces. The sounds are coming from the other side, so I put my gun up to my shoulder and lean over to take a look.

A corpse sits on the other side, only barely recognizable as the remains of a fire-breathing lizard. The flesh has been stripped away from its back end, and the metal left behind is scored with several scratches and pockmarks.

The thing that did the stripping is still there, chewing on the lizard's flank. The part of it I can see is long, thin, and stretching out from underneath the counter. It looks like a tentacle or a worm, capped with slightly wider end that's covered in a mane of dark hair. Its skin is covered with stripes in jagged patterns, all of them appearing to be made of chromed metal directly inlaid into the flesh.

It stops eating, apparently having noticed the light shining around it. It turns toward me and I can see that mouth, that horrible mouth, taking up the entire surface of its "head" in the middle of its mane. There are teeth of every shape and size lining the round hole, several rows of them going further down into the maw, all of them covered in gore and flexing as they simultaneously chew the last bit of lizard and move it further down the gullet for easier digestion.

"_SCREEEEEEEEEEEE!_"

"_Shit!_"

The sound is like a blender crossed with an angry cat, and it breaks me out of my horrified trance. I back away from the counter, but the thing doesn't come at me. Instead, it turns and shoots toward the wall opposite me, chewing through it at a stunning speed. I watch, transfixed, as its entire length disappears into the wall, leaving a jagged hole behind.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" I curse as I back even further away. The think has to be at least twenty feet long in all. I couldn't tell exactly because it was fast, so fast, even faster than the runners. And I can hear it in the walls, chewing its way up and down and all around as my phone changes vibration pitch so fast I can barely keep up.

Then, all at once, it sounds a steady alarm.

"ARGH!"

I wasn't prepared! Oh God it hurts _it hurts!_

My right arm is nothing but pain for several seconds, and I stumble around screaming as tears roll down my face. I put my left hand up instinctively to try and cover the wound, but I quickly pull it back as my palm begins to burn as well.

Clarity returns gradually. The phone gives off small jiggles, letting me know the worm is still there, but keeping its distance for the moment. I look over at my upper arm and see that my jacket sleeve is still intact but smoking slightly. The skin underneath it still feels like its on fire, but I think it's at a level now that I can manage. I hold out my left hand, and I can see a tiny smearing of green junk on the spot that hurts the most.

I wipe the junk off on my pants leg and immediately regret it. A little of the pain is transferred to my hip as well as smeared somewhat on my palm.

Acid. Some kind of acid, it has to be. It doesn't affect my clothing, somehow, but it's turning my palm an angry shade of shiny pink as it eats away at the surface of my skin. It must do a nasty trick on metal, too, explaining how the worm is able to move through the walls so quickly. I can see the holes where it burst out of the floor, brushed past me, and went back in through the ceiling.

It's back. Another heavy buzz sounds out from my pocket, and this time I'm ready. I leap to the side as the acid worm bursts from a nearby wall at an angle, aiming for my legs. It passes harmlessly by and goes down into the floor again.

Okay, strategy, strategy, gotta think of a strategy. I can do this. I can take Lowly the Worm down, I just have to think.

The buzz comes again, and this time I backpedal and fire my shotgun at the same time. I nearly fall over backward from the recoil, but I hear the satisfying sound of a high-pitched screech of pain. I switch direction and find the worm writhing on the ground, still screaming at the top of whatever it has for lungs. I drop my shotgun, pull the baseball bat from my pack, and start pounding the long, disgusting body into the ground.

It twists and flips around, trying to get away, so I end up hitting the floor almost as often as the monster itself, but that doesn't deter me in the slightest. I start working my way up toward the head, but it manages to get its bearings and spits out a glob of green acid, burning itself an escape route. After taking one last swing at its retreating tail, I slip the bat back into its makeshift holster and snatch my shotgun up from the floor.

"Okay, come on, you son of a bitch," I mumble threateningly into the dark. "Let's do this, come on, I've got you now . . . "

I don't have it. I don't have it at _all_. I backpedal again when the next buzz hits, but when I fire the only scream of pain is my own as the worm latches onto the back of my left leg and bites down into my calf. I fall on my back and try to roll away, but it has a death grip on me.

Oh no no no no, I can feel the teeth tear away at the denim, then the acid begins to melt away my skin and muscle and it's tearing that meat away and chewing it and _eating_ it eating _me_ and _fuck_ you _fuck_ you worm get the hell off me-

_BOOM!_

I'm not sure how I managed to do it through the blinding pain, but I aimed my gun at the worm and managed to pepper its exposed length with buckshot. It screeches as it lets go of my leg and retreats back into the hole it came from.

It takes me a few tries to finally stand back up, the pain traveling all the way up into my pelvis. This one is smarter than the others. Too damn quick and too damn smart. It knew I was going to try the same thing again and countered it. I've gotta get out of here.

I hobble my way over to the doors I came in through and slam myself bodily against the release catch. Nothing happens, causing me to cry out in fear and anger. I'm trapped, and the phone lets me know in no uncertain terms that the acid worm is coming back for round four.

It knows I'm seriously hurt now and that I can't run. The best I can manage is a quick hop. It'll come for the kill this time, but from what direction?

Time's up. Without any other idea what to do, I hold the shotgun up and fire straight ahead of me.

The acid worm's head explodes into a shower of meat and teeth, pieces landing all around me as the rest of its length collapses on the floor, twitches once, and then lays still. A small spray of its acid stings my face and hands. Tiny pits form in the floor and wall around me.

But it's dead. I'm alive. It's dead. I slump down in relief.

I'm not sure if luck or reason saved the day here. The thing was smart, but was it smart enough to come at me from behind instead of just make a straight shot? I wasn't sure. I banked on the latter, and it looks like I was right. Maybe it was luck and reason both.

Reason takes a backseat when I hear the siren again, way off in the distance. A sob escapes my chest. I can't do this again. I can't go down another level in this hellhole. My arm still hurts. My leg literally feels like it's falling off. I can't do this. Don't make me do this, please. I'm begging you. Please.

Everything goes pitch black dark as the siren hits its highest pitch. I should probably check my flashlight, but I just can't bring myself to do it. I don't have the energy anymore. But then it turns out I don't have to. The lights come up on their own, and I look blearily around.

The metal surfaces around me are . . . well, I'm not sure. It looks like they're flaking off, coming apart bit by bit, floating up into the air, and then sublimating into nothing. The floor and walls left behind appear to be those of the actual school, tile and seventies colors and all. The acid worm seems to have disappeared completely, and in its place I can see several standard cafeteria tables and benches.

Greyish light streams in through spaces in the boarded up windows off to my left. Cobwebs have replaced rust. The siren has stopped, and everything seems to be as it was before the last time it sounded. And it's absolutely beautiful to me.

I limp my way over to one of the tables, sit down, and twist my leg around to have a look at my wound. Doing so hurts like hell, but I just have to see.

The worm did a number on me. A sizable chunk of my calf is simply gone, leaving me surprised that I can still move my foot around at all. The skin and muscle around the giant divot is cauterized, burned smooth by the acid after the worm's teeth had done their thing.

Curiosity satisfied, I pull off my pack and dig out two of the Health Drinks. As I down them and try to ignore the disgusting wriggling sensation of my skin regrowing and patching itself, I take stock of the rest of my equipment. Small acid pits sit along the side of the bat where I was bashing it against the worm, but overall it looks like it'll still hold. I pull out the spare shells for my shotgun and slide 'em in, having just enough to completely reload it.

By the time I finish the second drink, I'm feeling completely reloaded myself. A fully new, fully functional calf muscle is covered by a new expanse of flesh. Well, not entirely new. The drink put the scars right back where they were, too, but I guess all it really does is reset me to how I was before I got to this strange world. Not much can be done about that, it seems.

Nor does it work any of its magic on my clothing, which leaves me with a gaping, ragged hole in the back of my pants leg. Oh, well. That's really of secondary importance, and aren't ripped jeans still in style anyway? Thank you, acid worm. I'm all the rage now. The Fashion Club would be proud.

Quinn. She's not here. I haven't searched every nook and cranny, but at this point I think I can say with some certainty that she's no longer in the school, if she ever was. I just don't feel it like I did before, like some psychic signal got turned off after I put down the worm.

I pull out the school map and find that all the markings have reverted back to where they were before I got dragged into the Otherworld. I consider just balling the paper up and tossing it, but what the hell. Never know if or when I might need to come back here for something, so I just shove it into one of the side pockets on my backpack and start gathering up all my stuff.

After a few limping steps, I find I can walk normally again. The new muscle is now with the program, so it's time to make a hasty exit. Leaving the cafeteria, I cut through the commons area, make my way through the principal's office and the main office, then make the short trip through the hallway and out the front door. No monsters attack me and no new obstacles throw themselves in my way.

I step back out into the fog and plot my next move. 


	7. Gibson Street

Ah, my old friend the town map. I pull it and my marker out and slash a huge red X across the school. This is the second time I've left a high school for somewhere else this year, and it would feel just as good if I hadn't had to nearly die several times to do it the second go around.

Since I'm already down this way, I figure it's best to go ahead and stick to my original plan of stopping by the police station. It might be just as empty as everything else around here seems to be, but there's still a chance that someone else will be holed up inside. Maybe that someone will be Quinn.

And if nothing else, at least the PD has a good chance of having more ammo for my weapons. As much as I hate to think it, I could very well be stuck here in Silent Hill for a while longer and I'll need all the protection I can get. And speaking of which, as I make my way across the school parking lot, I once again check the sparse cars along the way for any useful items. One of them has a Health Drink sitting in the back seat, so I smash open the window, reach in, and grab it.

Even though Mordecai said this wasn't the really real world, I have to wonder if my actions might still be having an effect there. I imagine the same window in the real world suddenly developing a long crack down the middle, and the image makes me almost laugh out loud. It's not funny, really, but I can use any chuckle I can get at the moment.

The mist still sits around everything, whitish-grey cotton rolling along with a slight breeze. At least the drizzle from before has completely stopped, leaving only the floating moisture particles to try and soak through my clothes. It's also left my surroundings even more silent than before without the soft patter of rain droplets on concrete and asphalt. I stop for a second, removing the steady clomp of my boots from the audible world as well.

To my modern-living ear - so used to hearing the hum of machines and electronics, the sound of cars passing, the murmur of voices in the next room - the silence is almost deafening. My ears ache as they try to hear something, anything other than the beat of my own pulse and the soft wind of my breath.

A sick feeling begins to form in my gut and the back of my neck is starting to tingle, so I quickly get a move back on. Boots hitting sidewalk is better than nothing, and I'm almost eager to hear the tap tap scrape of a runner now. Complete silence is just too damn creepy.

The shopping center is off to my left, and I studiously avoid looking at it or the thing that is surely just visible over the center's rooftops. That leaves me looking off to the right for the most part which, while boring, at least isn't mind-tearing in a Lovecraftian sort of way. There's nothing but empty countryside that way for the most part, all the way up to the fog line where I can see a sudden drop-off, almost certainly indicative of yet another impossibly large crater blocking off any attempts at escape.

Actually, come to think of it, the entire town might be surrounded by absolute nothingness, the ground it's sitting on nothing more than an island floating through misty space. This isn't the real world, so anything might be possible out there.

I start humming half-remembered tunes from _Brigadoon_to keep myself occupied, but they die in my throat as I approach the end of the block. There's a humanoid shape in the fog up ahead, but my phone isn't trying to give me any warning. Maybe the battery is dead, or maybe . . .

"Hello?"

The figure turns around at the sound of my voice and steps carefully my way. Not wanting to look threatening, I stop and wait for them to come to me.

"Is someone there?" a male voice calls out. He steps into visibility range and I'm surprised to see that it's Eric, the clerk from Jack's Inn.

He looks about as bad as I feel. He's wearing half of his name tag, which is torn along a line that matches the missing section of his button-up shirt, giving him a sort of Ash Williams look. His eyes are wild and twitchy behind his glasses, and he's holding a hunting rifle in a death grip. He's been through hell, and I can definitely sympathize.

"Yes!" I call back. "I'm human, don't shoot!"

He sees me, and the second he does the rifle is up and on his shoulder. I jump back in surprise and hold my hands wide, letting my shotgun dangle from its strap.

"Whoa, hey!" I yell. "I said _don't _shoot!"

He doesn't seem inclined to listen. "It's _you!_" he says, his voice a high-pitched squeal. "You did this to me! You brought me here! What did I ever do to you, you bitch?"

He does seem inclined to insanity, however. I start to back up slowly as random soothing words tumble out of my mouth. "Whoa whoa whoa, wait, hold on! Just put the gun down and let's talk about this, okay? Nobody has to threaten anybody. We can all be friends, right? So just tell me what the problem is, 'cause I really have no idea what's going on here."

"The _hell_ you don't!" he shouts, shaking the rifle violently but never quite aiming it away from me. "I'm not supposed to be here! I didn't do it! I didn't do anything! I don't belong here! You dragged me here! _You did this to me!_"

"Look, Eric," I say, "I'm serious, I have no idea what's going on. I don't know what I'm doing here any more than you do. If it were up to me, we'd both be back at the motel in the real world and none of this would have happened. Okay?"

"No no no no no no no," he starts chanting, shaking his head as he does so. I can see sweat starting to pop out on his forehead despite the chill in the air.

"Yes, Eric. It's the truth. You just have to trust me, okay, and we can work on getting out of here together. I promise. Just please . . . put the gun _down_."

"_NO!_" he shouts, steadying the rifle and squinting down the sights.

I can't believe this. I survived nearly getting sliced up, smashed to a pulp, eaten, and melted by acid only to get shot by another human being. I close my eyes and brace myself for the impact.

Funny, I didn't realize the impact would sound so meaty. Or that it would be accompanied by the clattering of metal on concrete. Or that it would sound like it was happening a few yards in front of me.

I open my eyes slowly to see that Eric has fallen forward on the sidewalk and is laying there unmoving, his rifle now sitting on the ground between us. David is there, standing over Eric's prone body and lowering his pipe as if he's just taken a swing at something. It takes a few seconds for my brain to get started back up and figure out what just happened.

David still looks just like he did when I saw him back at the apartments, except the friendly, open expression is gone. Instead, it appears almost as if his face has been carved out of some highly focused and very serious stone as he stares down at the other man. Suddenly he hefts the pipe up into the air for an overhand strike and I suck in a sharp breath.

"David, _stop!_" I yell at him, causing him to jerk his head up and hesitate.

"What?" he mumbles, looking and sounding genuinely confused for a moment, then concern steals its way over his face. He lowers the pipe and takes a step toward me. "Mel, are you alright?"

"Am . . . am _I_ alright?" I ask, then point down at Eric. "Is _he _alright?"

David looks down at the body, then back up. "He's still breathing," he says. "We have to kill him."

"What? No!"

"Mel, he was about to shoot you!"

"But he's not about to now!" I protest angrily. "What the hell are you doing here anyway?"

He shrugs. "I got to thinking after you left, maybe I should've come with you, y'know?" he says. "Thought you could use the help, and obviously I was right."

I almost say something scathing, but stop myself and rub a hand across my face. "I'm sorry, yes, thank you. But you don't have to kill him!"

"I guarantee that if he gets back up, he'll try to shoot you again," he says, something dark underlying his statement. "This place changes people, makes them go a little nuts, do strange things."

There go those little red flags again.

"I thought you said you hadn't seen anyone besides me," I say as I start to slowly sidestep around him and Eric. "How do you know what this place does to people?"

"What? Ye- no, I haven't seen anyone else. I . . . I just felt it happening to me," he replies, his eyes darting to the side as he licks his lips nervously. "Y'know, just . . . weird ideas. I thought that- Look, I'm just trying to help you, Melody. I'm trying to keep you safe. And to do that, this guy has to-"

He raises the pipe again as he speaks, but I interrupt him with another shout. "David, _no!_"

I've stepped around far enough that Eric is no longer between us, so I lift up my shotgun and draw a bead on David's midsection. The friendly, concerned face from before is gone completely. Now he's glaring back at me with grim warning glimmering in his eyes. He lowers the pipe once more and holds his arms out.

"Oooh, I see. I get it. This is the thanks I get," he says sharply. "I invite you into my home, share my stuff with you, show you how to get to where you're going, and now you're gonna point a gun at me? You've changed, Melody. I told you this place does things to people. Look at what it's done to _you_."

"You don't know me," I whisper, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice. "You don't know me at all."

"Oh I think I do," he says, and this time there's no mistaking the storm cloud broiling underneath the surface. "I think you finally saw the other side. I think you think that makes you _hard _all of a sudden. But look at you shaking. You won't shoot me. Couldn't if you wanted."

He grins as his words twist my expression and my knees start to buckle. He's right. I can't take another life. Not another one. But I can't just let him kill this man, so despite everything Dad taught me, I keep the gun pointed at him even though we both know I'm not going to pull the trigger. Hell, I haven't even turned the safety off.

"You're just like the others," he says with a sneer. "But you know what? That's fine. That's just fine. I hope you and your new _boyfriend_ here," he snarls, kicking Eric's ankle lightly, "have a _real _good time together."

And with that, he turns around and disappears into the fog.

I let the shotgun drop the second he's gone. I'm still shaking, and it's taking everything I've got not to scream. Is everyone here a psycho? Isn't it enough that I've got to deal with real monsters that the people have to be monsters, too? At least I can deal with the real thing. I can take my frustrations out on them. But people . . .

I've never been a people person. When I was a kid, I never got along with the other kids. When I was a teenager, I never got along with the other teenagers. And now here I am, supposedly a full grown adult, and I can't seem to get along with other full grown adults.

Well, admittedly these aren't the best of circumstances, but can't I at least go five minutes in the presence of another human being without them trying to kill each other or me when they're not being just plain cryptic or skeevy? I'm having a hard enough time as it is, and they are _not helping_.

But I knew that already, didn't I? Talking with David the first time made me feel like I'd touched an oil slick with my bare hands, and talking with Mordecai had been like trying to figure out the morning _Jumble_ while dropping acid. Why did I even bother calling out to Eric? Was I really that starved for human interaction after the school's monster marathon?

No. No, I must have thought it might be Quinn. I must have.

Either way, Eric is on the ground now, unconscious. My first instinct is the callous one, to simply leave him there and move on. David was right about one thing. He did try to kill me. And he's not my responsibility anyway.

_You saved his life, didn't you?_

Okay, annoying little voice, you and I are going to have words sometime soon. But . . . dammit, you're right. I saved him from getting his head caved in, which does make him my responsibility. Sort of. And that means I can't just leave him out where runners can just tap tap scrape right on up and carve him like a turkey. It would've been more humane just to let David brain him in comparison.

Thankfully there aren't any runners on the street at the moment, but there's no telling how long that'll last. Slinging my shotgun around behind me, I turn Eric over and wrap my arms under his shoulders. Moving injured people isn't the best thing to do, I know, but it's better than leaving him to the wolves or waking him up only for him to try and kill me again sooner rather than later.

If I remember the map correctly, there's some kind of shop right across the street. Fortunately Eric isn't much bigger than I am, so dragging him across the street is only an inconvenient and time-consuming chore, not an exercise in futility.

Every few steps I look over my shoulder until I can see a large, ornate sign reading "Canopy Curios". I have to angle to one side a bit, but I manage to get Eric straight up to the front door of the building with no problem after that. After carefully lowering him to rest on the front step, I lean back against the wall to catch my breath.

The door, as I had assumed it would be, is locked. Looking Eric over, I notice he's got a small hatchet in a holster strapped to his leg, so I appropriate it to kill two birds with one stone. Now he can't use it on me if he wakes up suddenly, and I can use it to smash the glass section of the door instead of having to pull my own bat out. That done, I reach in, flip the deadbolt, and open the door.

Breaking and entering seems to be a theme for me now. Maybe when I get to Boston I'll change my major to Petty Crime.

Canopy Curios seems to be a rather old fashioned building, perfect for the tourism crowd. Everything is varnished wood in good old Colonial style, and every surface is covered with all sorts of rustic knick-knacks, the kind that people buy just to throw in a closet and forget about the second they get home.

I set the hatchet down, prop the door open, and pull Eric inside. After a bit of struggle, I get him laid out behind the front counter. He's still breathing, and even though there's a massive welt starting to form on the back of his neck, I don't see any bleeding or his spine sticking out of his skin. He should be alright here for a little bit.

Grabbing up the hatchet again, I go out and retrieve his rifle from across the street. A slight rumble from my phone tells me that getting him inside was definitely a good idea, but I can't be entirely certain he's safe just yet. Back inside, I hide the hatchet and rifle behind one of the store's shelves and move further in to check the place out. Just because it looks empty doesn't mean there isn't something nasty waiting to pop out of a back room to chew on Eric's face the second I leave.

With "Curios" in the name, I would have expected some more interesting stock. It conjures up images of Egyptian proprietors running seedy, smoky bazaars where one can find mystical objects full of dark magicks from around the world.

About halfway through the main part of the store, I'm surprised to find my expectations met. The regular tourist trap crap gives way to some truly bizarre pieces that I find myself stopping and staring at for several seconds before moving on. Intricately carved masks affixed to shrunken heads. Sets of curved daggers, their edges flecked with what could be either rust or dried blood. Smoking apparatuses that don't smell like tobacco, marijuana, opium, or any other drug I can think of, but of something even thicker. Earthier.

Strangely enough, I almost feel at home here. I've always had a fascination with the strange and unusual. Perhaps because I myself am strange and unusual. I like to shop for an look at medical oddities, for instance, so this sort of stuff is right up my alley. Of course, the contrast between finding all of this weird stuff comforting while all the other weird stuff I've encountered here freaks me out almost strikes me as amusing.

Right up until I remember that the difference is that none of the stuff here is trying to kill me or keep me separated from my sister. Weirdness has its place, and preferably that place is on my TV screen. Actually living an episode of _Sick, Sad World_ isn't as fun as it might seem from the outside.

The manager's office and public restroom are free of creepy crawlies other than the regular ones. A sizable spider is living underneath the sink, but it's just a relatively harmless golden orb. It seems a little out of place, really, but maybe it's a crazy spider, just like everyone else here.

Well, that's food for thought, isn't it? Is that how you get stuck in the fog world? By being some kind of weirdo crazy? I think of myself as the sane center in an insane world so often, but if I'm to be uncomfortably honest with myself, I can't precisely say that's true. By the standards of normal society I'm definitely not a bastion of normality. And what with pointing guns at people and being paranoid at every turn, I certainly haven't been acting normal by even my own standards since I got here. Another point I have to grudgingly give David.

But putting aside all my own mental problems, that still doesn't explain how Quinn got here. Sure, _I_ think she's a little too into all that popularity and appearances junk, but that sort of stuff seems to be how a lot of the real world works. And she's been working to find a balance with intelligence and function anyway. As much as it pains me to think, she might just be the sanest person I know.

If she is here, then she definitely doesn't belong. All the more reason to find her and get her out.

The manager's office has a set of rickety stairs in it leading up to a second floor. Probably an apartment or storage space, possibly the lair of an acid worm or something worse. Only one way to find out, so I take each squeaky step one by one until I reach the top. The door there is old, worn, and unlocked. The area on the other side is dark, so I switch on my flashlight before stepping over the threshold.

Cobwebs and dust cover every surface in the empty space. The dry smell of gradual decay fills my nose, tickling my nostrils. The room itself appears to be completely empty, the floors bare and the walls displaying uncovered insulation. If this area was ever used for anything, there's no longer any sign of it.

It conveys a feeling of sadness to me, like an old attic where all the old memories have been removed. If there were any clear spots left in the dust where anything might have been, they've long ago been covered up by time. The only sign that anyone has been up here in at least a decade are the footprints that I myself am leaving behind as I step further into the room.

My phone stays silent and my flashlight reveals nothing more than simple wooden columns holding the roof in place. I cross slowly, shotgun in hand, until the far end comes into sight.

A small table sits up against the wall. Even under the thick layer of dust I can see that it looks old enough to have been ancient when ancient things were still new. Two candelabras sit on either side, cobwebs strung between the half-melted candles jammed into their holders. And right in the middle, free and clear of any sign they've been there for anything more than just a few minutes, are a Health Drink, a small clip of rifle bullets, and a key.

I carefully pick up the key and hold it in front of me by the small leather strap threaded through its head. It looks almost as old as the table it was sitting on, black iron pitted with age and wrought into a beautiful design. Turning it in the light, I can see that the head has been crafted to resemble that of a dragon, and the key's body is more subtly shaped like flames emerging from its mouth.

I pick up the clip and the drink, leaving behind perfect imprints of them in the dust. The rest of the attic is devoid of any more surprises, so I head back downstairs, items in hand. I approach the area where I left Eric slowly just in case he's woken up and still has a mad-on, but the sound of heavy snoring hits my ears.

Though no longer unconscious, he seems to have rolled over and is now merely asleep. Not that I can blame him. As tensed up as he was before, if he'd been drinking any Health Drinks he must have burned through the enlivening effects pretty quick.

Quietly, so as not to wake him, I gather up his weapons and then set them and the stuff from upstairs next to his feet. The thought does cross my mind to keep the drink and the key, but I get the feeling that they're meant for him, not me. I'm still not sure what kind of crazy game Silent Hill is trying to play with any of us, but I don't want to interfere in their part of it any more than I want them to continue interfering in mine.

Besides, keeping a key meant for him would probably just get him hunting me down, and that's the last thing I need.

On the way out, I close the door and reach back in to lock it. Hopefully nothing with hands comes along and makes everything I've just done pointless. Hopefully David decided to either fuck off somewhere or follow me instead of sneak in and finish Eric off after I leave.

Either way, I've done all I can do here.

There's a harpy shuffling around the sidewalk where Eric fell down. I'm not sure how it's doing so with a metal beak, but it seems to be sniffing at the air, trying to figure out where the scent of human ran off to. I could probably put a few bullets into it, ground it permanently, but all it would do is waste bullets. And maybe make me feel a little better.

But depression's good for you, says the Misery Chick. Builds character. So I hang back and watch the beast from a distance until it gives up and takes wing, squawking its displeasure that it wasn't able to find the trail.

"The Misery Chick".

I remember thinking about that stupid nickname earlier. It never caught on, thank goodness, but that's probably only because the guy who came up with it died shortly afterward. People in school still treated me like they somehow knew about it anyway. I was the downer of my class. The weird girl who thought about all these dark and gloomy things, just because I had a brain, I used it, and I didn't buy into their cheery, sugarcoated view of the world.

I talked to Jane about it and declared myself Not The Misery Chick, which she confirmed, but damn if I don't sometimes have that little seed of a doubt sitting in the back of my mind.

_Am _I the Misery Chick?

Maybe that's why we're all here. Maybe we're all miserable in our own way. It would certainly seem to fit the motif of the fog world, helping us out and running us into the ground in turns, making things just harsh enough to keep us miserable but not harsh enough to make us give up. In my case, Quinn's the carrot on the stick to keep me running on the massive treadmill known as Silent Hill.

God knows I haven't really been happy lately. Yes, I'm out of high school and on my way to college - assuming I survive this - where things are supposed to be better, but I'm having to leave my best friend behind to do so. I broke up with my boyfriend, and even though it went rather amicably, it wasn't exactly easy either. I still get the shakes whenever I even think about getting behind the wheel of a vehicle. If it weren't for the Health Drinks I'd probably be dying for some ibuprofen right about now. And strangely enough, I'm finding that I do miss stupid Lawndale and my insufferable family.

Hmm.

But maybe it isn't misery. Sure, Eric might have been miserable at his job, David might have been miserable because he couldn't keep a girlfriend, and Mordecai might have been miserable because he's suffering from early onset senility, but I don't know any of that for sure. And some things they both said strike me as kind of odd now that I'm reviewing it in my head.

Eh. I dunno. Not enough information to work with. Time to get my game face on anyway. My target destination is coming up slowly on my left.

The first thing I see is a fenced-in parking lot with a single squad car parked at a strange angle, like it had been doing donuts and was abandoned halfway through. I don't see an entrance that wouldn't involve me getting sliced by razor wire, however, so I make a mental note and keep going until I see the main attraction itself, the South Silent Hill Police Department.

Not exactly a name you'd want to have to remember and shout out in the middle of an emergency situation. People probably just call it "sishpid" for short. It certainly looks pretty sishpid. More of that famous Silent Hill brickwork and wood architecture. I could almost imagine the 50's era Dick Tracy stepping out of the front doors.

I stand in front of those doors for a moment and once again contemplate whether or not I really want to go in. The only cop I've run across so far wasn't much use to me except as a corpse to loot . . . which is actually a point in favor of proceeding as planned, come to think of it.

But being dead was probably the only reason I was able to get along with the poor bastard. If there are any live cops hanging around here, I probably won't get along with them very well, especially if they're all hopped up crazy like everyone else. And they'll probably be lazy and useless, just like the cops back in Lawndale.

Irritation is starting to set in. I better get going before it gets a solid grip and I end up screaming random obscenities at the door simply out of principle. So before I can change my mind, I snatch open the door and step inside.


	8. Police Station

Where Munson High was the school that time forgot, I have to admit that the old stylings actually work here. This isn't the slick high-tech super-modern version of a police office you see on TV. This is a working man's building. This is where hard-nosed detectives drink steaming coffee from Styrofoam cups as they wearily read over case files. Where uniformed officers crouch down next to crying children and tell them that the people responsible _will_ be caught.

This is Clint Eastwood crossed with John Wayne and put through a Sam Spade filter.

Like the school before it, everything has a slightly grimy look with webs hanging from above and dust sitting underneath, but this doesn't dull the mystique of the place. In fact, it adds to it a bit. Regardless of how I feel about the police or Silent Hill, the writer in me is already subconsciously plotting out a screenplay to be filmed right here.

The main room of the building is large and open with a high ceiling that accommodates a second floor off in the back. Between the two large staircases, doors to offices line the walls around the wide main hall. Several desks, some surrounded by half-height cubicle walls, dot the area behind a small bannister with a swinging gate in the middle.

To my immediate right is a secretary's desk, separate from the rest and undoubtedly used for the first round of checking in suspects and directing everyone else where to go. I definitely need the latter, so I step around and start sorting through the drawers. After several minutes of digging through folders filled with empty forms, I find one with miscellaneous documents, including an In Case of Emergency map.

Its crisp, clear edges suggest that it's the original, used to make copies to hang around the building, but I don't think anyone's going to complain too much if I take it.

The sishpid is smaller than the school was by way of width and depth, but it wins in the height category with three floors in all, one above and one below. The second floor appears to be primarily record keeping split with a meager forensics area and the offices of the biggest of the wigs. Then detectives offices and storage on my current floor, with holding cells and a boiler room in the basement.

Might as well start at the top and work my way down. I fold the map and stick it in my jacket pocket as I step through the small gate and into the cubicle farm. Giving the desks around me a cursory look as I pass, I happen to find two shotgun shells sitting balanced against each other on an old-fashioned ink blotter.

The right stairway doesn't appear any better than the left, but that's the one I decide to ascend by random unanimous solitary mental vote. The steps are wide enough for four people to walk up or down side by side, which gives me an interesting feeling of luxury. Plenty of elbow room without any perps in handcuffs to jostle me as they pass.

The second floor hallway is likewise rather large. In the gloom I can see that it stretches on back to the very rear of the building and then turns left. Several heavyset doors line the way along the right side, so I start twisting doorknobs as I pass. There are names on plaques, but I ignore them. Police Chief Dumbass and Commissioner Smartass can kiss Myass.

Third time's the charm. The door to Deputy Chief Whoever's office glides open on well-oiled hinges into a modestly appointed office. Tiled floor gives way to hardwood as I step inside and look around at the shelves and file drawers lining the walls in between various pictures and framed documents.

Wow. This guy likes ducks.

I mean _really_ likes ducks. Portraits, paintings, photos, figurines, models, statuettes, candy dishes . . . so many different forms of his avian overlords fill the shelves and cover every other available surface that I almost have to believe that it's something he's strangely but openly fetishistic about. Even the phone and fancy pen set on the desk are duck themed.

Oh, wait, not a he but a she. The name plate on the desk is for a Meredith, and right next to it is a framed photograph of the deputy chief herself holding up a mess of freshly dead ducks. Suddenly the massive display takes on less of a sexual vibe and more of a cave painting aspect, a series of totems meant to invoke power over her prey.

Less queasy-making, but still pretty creepy.

I'm not here on a hunting expedition, however, so I shake my head to clear it of any further ducky thoughts and start searching the area for anything useful. All but one of the desk drawers are unlocked, making the locked one very conspicuous by contrast. The thought of just blowing the thing open with my shotgun brings a slight smile to my face, but I decide that bit more subtlety and finesse may be needed here.

After I repeatedly kick it and leave a huge dent in the metal, the locking mechanism is no longer hanging tight to anything, allowing me to pull the drawer out with a minimum of difficulty and a great deal of satisfaction. Besides a few ledgers and a small fireproof case, there is only one item of interest within, a thick keyring holding seven keys that jangle softly as I pick them up.

They aren't as ornate as the dragon key I left with Eric, but they certainly aren't normal door keys. If I had to take a guess, I'd say they probably work on the holding cells down below. That's just intriguing enough of a possibility for me to put the ring in my jeans pocket.

Back out in the hall I continue trying doors. I'm pretty disappointed when I turn the corner and find the one marked "Forensics Lab" proves resistant to my attempts to get it open. Again I think about using my shotgun as a lockpick, but if there are any monsters hanging out around here, it's probably best not to attract their attention sooner than I have to.

One of the doors leading into the hall of records proves much easier to get along with anyway, allowing me into the first modern-ish looking room I've come across so far in Silent Hill. The floor is covered in dark blue carpet while the walls are a light grey with almost no trimming or decoration whatsoever. There is a potted plant nearby, though it looks like it's been chewed on slightly by a thousand hungry ants and isn't too happy about the prospect of them coming back to finish the job.

Much of my view of the room is blocked off by library-style shelves that stretch all the way up to the ceiling and are completely covered with boxes and file folders, but at least there's a fair bit of dim light coming in through the wide windows stretching along the outer walls. And though my line of sight is restricted, I can still get the sense that this is a rather large room, apparently taking up the entire western half of the second floor.

I walk down the nearest aisle, shelves on my left and wall on my right. Every once in a while I stop to briefly flash my light at a few things that catch my eye, but invariably they end up being things like office supplies left behind by some clerk too busy to tidy up after themselves, not bullets or Health Drinks left by my invisible benefactor.

A light cough makes my heart skip a beat when I reach the end of the aisle. A very distinctly human noise, and suddenly I wonder if David might have gotten here ahead of me and is now lying in wait to ambush me. I still don't want to kill him, of course, but I can't just let him attack me, so I pull out my bat and shove the shotgun into its vacated spot in my pack. I've got no qualms at all with knocking him the hell out at this point.

I tightly wrap the fingers of both hands around the bat's rubber grip and hold it out in front of me. The space between the shelves is kind of roomy, but not enough for a good swing, so I'll just have to rely on an overhead strike if it comes to it.

The cough came from a few aisles down. As I slowly creep my way in that direction, I notice a soft shuffling sound that I instantly recognize as sheets of paper being turned one by one. Did David get bored waiting for me and start reading a novel to keep himself occupied?

The warcry I was building up in my chest goes flat when I turn the corner, bat raised high, and see not David but another familiar face standing there, flipping through a case folder.

"Oh, greetings and salutations, Miss Powers," Mordecai says brightly when he looks up to see me staring at him in confusion. "I was rather hoping we would run into each other once more."

The only thing in his hands is the file. He still has his dual pistols and club, but the former are in their holsters and the latter is strapped to his back by a leather belt. He's got a shortsword now, apparently, but it in a sheathe hanging at his side. His expression is open, expectant, waiting for me to reply. He's not a threat.

I don't put my guard down. Not just yet.

"Are you following me?" I demand.

"Goodness no!" he exclaims, then glances up at my bat. "Are you following _me?_"

I slowly lower my weapon but still keep it in hand. "No," I tell him. "But then what are you doing here?"

"Reading!" he says with a smile and hefting the folder a bit. "The tidbits you can find here are simply delicious. Did you ever find your cousin?"

"No. Not yet." I have to cover up a small look of surprise. I forgot I was telling people she's my cousin. I've had a lot on my mind since the last time we met. "I'm just here trying to restock until I find another clue."

He nods gravely. "Very wise decision," he says. "There's a reading area just a few stacks over. Would you like to retire there for the moment? I believe we have much to discuss."

"After you," I say, stepping back and gesturing with the bat. He places a finger in the file to mark his place and smiles sympathetically as he passes by me.

"Ah, you are learning fast," he says as he leads me forward. "The people here are not to be trusted. Except for myself, of course, but naturally you shouldn't trust anyone who has to actually state their own trustworthiness!"

He laughs, I roll my eyes.

Besides the new weapon he's accrued, Mordecai looks a little different since last I saw him. Still the same hair and glasses, but his ivy league suit jacket is gone. He's sporting a little waistcoat and has his shirtsleeves very neatly rolled up, however, which still gives him a college professor air. Looking down at myself, I can see that everything I'm wearing looks like torn up shit while his is still perfectly clean and whole.

Maybe while we're in our little Q&A session, I'll ask him who his dry cleaner is.

The reading area consists of four small tables with two chairs each. Mordecai gestures to one and I have a seat while he unstraps his club and sets it to the side. I notice for the first time that the wood has seen some use, but the only sign of any major damage is a spot on the side facing me that looks like it had something attached to it at one point. Small splinters of wood still stick up around the area. Strange.

"Why are we here?" I ask the second he sits down.

Confusion and surprise clouds his face for a moment. "Because . . . I asked you to come over here?" he says uncertainly. "So we could sit down?"

Oh boy.

"No, I mean here in this fog," I say, trying to stay calm.

"You've seen the Other Place." It's not a question, and I can actually hear him pronounce the capital letters.

I swallow the knot that's suddenly formed in my throat. "Yes."

He looks saddened, almost comically so, but there's no doubt that it's genuine. "Then you should know why," he says. "_Suffering_. This place - and especially that one - feeds on it. Draws it in. And the more of it you have, the stronger it calls out to you. You are here because you suffer."

"Not any more than anyone else," I say, my voice straining at the lie.

"Oh, my dear child," he says with a shake of his head and a grim attempt at a smile. "It's in your eyes, the way you move, your every action. You feel pain. You may not allow yourself to feel it all the time, but it is there all the same. As it is with everyone else who has ever entered the fog and everyone else who ever will."

"Fine," I growl. "Let's just say, for the sake of argument, that I am suffering. How do I get out of here when I find my cousin?"

With a long, calculating look, he wraps one hand over the other, leans on his elbows, and taps one of his fingers rhythmically. He's preparing to be evasive again. I'm really not liking that.

"I don't know," he says carefully. "But it won't be easy."

Grind my teeth, grind my teeth, grind my teeth, change the subject.

"So what's _your_ story, Mr. Kingsley?" I ask, turning the conversation around on him. "Why are _you_ here? What's hurting _you_so bad that the fog decided you looked like a tasty snack?"

"Who, me?" he returns, faking shock. "Why, I'm certainly suffering, there is no doubt about that whatsoever, but not so much that the town itself called me here. No, my dear Melody, I am here because I choose to be."

" . . . what."

He smiles, then leans back and throws his hands wide. "Once upon a time!" he cries theatrically, his voice echoing slightly off the metal shelves surrounding us. "Once upon a time, the children of Silent Hill decided that they wanted to create their very own super-special super-secret club. They made rules and had meetings and did all the things that all super-special super-secret clubs did. Why, they even found _religion_, these poor, misguided children! They found a goddess, and they found angels, and they found demons, but they desired to do more. They desired to reach out and touch these beings. To become one with them.

"They entered the fog and sought God in the flesh. They entered the Other Place and the angels awaited them. And they learned, they learned so much, and it drove them mad. But their God was not there. She was dormant, asleep, dead. A rebirth was required, and the children discovered that they could make it happen, if only they wished it.

"But they did not wish hard enough. The sacrifices they offered up were not enough. They failed, they fell, they burned, and those who were left were exposed to the light. _They_ became the demons, and the demons scurried back to the dark places to hide . . . "

Holy shit. We both sit in silence for several minutes before I finally manage to clear my throat to speak. "So you're . . . hiding?"

Mordecai blinks rapidly, looking around like he's forgotten where he is. Rather than please him, recognition of his surroundings causes him to frown deeply. "I am," he says, his voice suddenly husky. "Though for . . . different reasons."

"But, if you can get here, hide here under your own power," I say, my thoughts racing at a million miles per hour, "then you can get back the same way, right?"

An eternity seems to pass before he answers.

"Yes."

"Mordecai-"

"_But_," he interrupts, "I can only do so for myself. And I won't even do that. Not yet. My work here is not done, and it is not yet safe for me out there. I am sorry. You must find your own way."

I stand up, lean across the table, and fix him with my most potent glare. "Then you're of no help to me whatsoever."

Bat in hand, I stalk down the closest aisle before I lose control and start breaking things. But despite the red clouding my vision and my head, I stop when I hear him speak again.

"I have already helped out, Melody," he says, his voice faint. "You simply do not realize it yet. I can give you the keys. Only you can find the door."

More cryptic bullshit. He's said his piece, so I leave him to it.

Here because he chooses to be, my ass. He's on the run, he's said so himself. Him and the rest of his religious buddies. Some kind of weird cult from the sounds of it, and they got exposed, so now it's either stay here or face whatever's chasing him back in the real world. And if he's elected to stay here, then whatever's looking for him out there has got to be one serious son of a bitch.

Mordecai has done nothing but waste my time, holding me up from finding Quinn, obstructing and confusing and lying to me by turns. I hope whatever it is chasing him catches up to the bastard.

I'm supposed to be searching this room. That had been my original purpose in even coming in here, but I'm too stomping furious to bother now. I wander randomly through the aisles to try and blow off some steam. It isn't working, so I swing my bat hard, bashing several boxes and sending them tumbling to the ground. Paper flies everywhere as I hit the shelves and their contents again and again.

It's _cathartic_, so _fuck you_.

Several of the boxes land right in front of me as I continue my rampage. I give each one a good swift kick as I continue walking along, sending even more paper to scatter across the carpet. I stop and reach down to grab a fistful of the files to crumple and tear and toss, but I freeze when I get a glance at what's typed across their surface.

_Interminable society breaks long windows in the path of glorious righteousness. When brought to the milkman, it sings a song of thousands and lies buried in the mud. Whenever platitudes bring longitudes into the brightness of suns far gone into a box of remarkable bees, never sneeze on love. This is a glass of mortuary happiness drummed deep in every child. Repeat on grass, slow._

"What the-?"

I throw the papers down and pick up another random batch. The same kind of babble is spread across them in the form of inter-office memos. I slide the bat into the side of my pack opposite the shotgun and crouch down to pick up a box from one of the lower shelves. Inside I find several police reports, filled out by hand but still consisting of nothing but word salad on every single page.

My brain aches as it tries to make sense of what its seeing. For the most part the sentences are grammatically correct, but the words themselves simply don't go together. I continue walking from one row to the next, checking random boxes and folders, but they're all the same.

Which begs the question, what in the hell was Mordecai reading? I could understand if he was taking the opportunity to find something on his enemies in the real world, but at best this stuff is nothing more than bad poetry churned out by a random number generator.

He's insane. Absolutely insane. I can't trust him any more than I can David or Eric. He may not be overtly dangerous yet, but any man who reads nonsense, spouts lies, and carries a club made out of a cross with the side arms broken off is not a stable person.

I can't trust anyone. I'm all alone in this. Which means I need to find Quinn now more than ever.

Opening the door back to the hallway involves kicking it first. Not for any practical purpose, of course. Just because it feels like the right thing to do. I turn the corner and there are two more doors to check that don't go into a different part of records. I twist the knobs hard, and when the doors refuse to open, I kick them too.

I take the stairs back down to the first floor two at a time, but a buzz from my pocket stops me halfway down. Immediately I lean over the bannister and look down, but there's nothing waiting for me amongst the desks from what I can see. Having learned my lesson well, I turn my gaze upward and find that, sure enough, my new foes lie in wait there.

Two harpies. They weren't there when I passed by on the other side earlier, but there they are now, clinging to the roof like bats, their wings wrapped around their ugly, twisted bodies.

Previously, I would have tried to move under them, hoping they wouldn't notice me. But now all I see are two very convenient targets. I draw my pistol out, prime it, and take careful aim at the one on the left. Its head is tucked underneath its wings or I would try for a headshot, but I figure any amount of damage is good right now.

The _crack _of the pistol going off actually sounds rather impressive as it echoes off the far wall. The sudden screeches of pain and anger from the harpies sound doubly so. I scored a body shot on my target, but it keeps its grip on the rafter as it and its buddy spread their wings and prepare for flight.

I fire three more times, but without taking the time aim only one of them strikes true. Both creatures are in the air now, swooping down at a tight angle as I hastily put the pistol back in its holster and pull out my shotgun. The unwounded harpy reaches the edge of the stairway first, pulling up short as if to land on the railing before attacking.

"Surprise!" I grunt as I give it a point-blank chestful of buckshot, tearing open its ribcage and sending monster blood spraying out.

Whatever plans it had regarding staying close to me are shattered as it falls backward with a surprised squawk. Seconds later I hear the meaty thump of a body hitting the floor. I pump out the empty cartridge and look around for the second harpy only to find that it is hovering several yards away, glaring at me. Actual hovering, staying in one place in the middle of the air by flapping its wings slowly.

Neat trick. If I hadn't already been certain that the laws of physics were out to lunch in the fog world, this would definitely have cinched it.

A second boom thunders in the wide lobby as pellets spread out and pepper the beast all over. Small holes tear their way through its leathery wings, causing it to fall out of the sky like a lead balloon. So much for the hovering thing.

I eject the second spent shell and switch back to my bat as I continue down the steps at a more leisurely pace. The anger and frustration are still pumping through my head at a steady beat, but I'm also feeling a great deal of satisfaction at the moment. Sure, it's of the grim sort, a morbid sense of accomplishment, but it's better than nothing.

The harpy that got closest to me is lying completely still, a pool of its blood gathering underneath it. The other is in the middle of the lobby, scrabbling across the hardwood and making mewling sounds deep in its throat. Don't worry, little bird. I'm here to put you out of your misery. I'm here to end your suffering.

"But first I'm gonna break every single bone in your fucking body, you _fucking bitch_," I say out loud, spitting each word like a curse.

It doesn't even seem to notice I'm here. I swing the bat loosely in my hand then pull back to-

I scream as it suddenly lashes out and rakes its talons across my shin. My legs shoot out from under me, forcing me to fall forward onto the nasty bird-thing as I drop my bat. It wriggles out from underneath me, stands up, and shakes like a dog as if to rid itself of the buckshot embedded in its body. As I try to regain my own feet, I belatedly realize that it was faking the severity of its injuries, luring me in.

I seriously need to stop underestimating these things.

The pain in my leg is too much for me to stand up, so I spin around and crawl on my hands and knees to where my bat rolled up against a desk. I'm almost there when the cutting pressure of the harpy's beak closes down around my ankle and it jerks me backward. I fall flat on the floor again, clawing for purchase on the wood and watching the bat recede in the distance.

It feels like my bones are starting to crack, and it would just have to be the injured right leg that the monster grabbed. I hear the noise of heavy furniture being moved and look back to see that the harpy is pushing past a desk. I reach out and snag one of the legs before it can drag me all the way past it, a cry of triumph quickly becoming a cry of pain as my leg nearly pops a joint from the harpy jerking me and the desk a full foot its way.

Just hang on, hang on, it hurts, but hang on . . .

"_Fuck me!_" I shout as my fingers start to slip. My palms are sweating, lubricating the process, my own body betraying me in a time of need.

Each heavy jerk pops my fingers away from the desk one by one until I'm pulled completely loose. The pain where the harpy's beak is cutting down into my ankle has gone so high that I think the nerves have begun to shut down. That or the circulation has simply been cut off for too long. I no longer feel much of anything down there.

But wherever it's taking me is sure to be filled with more hurt and torture to make up for that. I dig my fingernails down into the hardwood floor, but this accomplishes nothing other than leaving behind small grooves and, after a few seconds, little trails of blood as the nails start to tear away.

Finally we come to a stop. The harpy still keeps a hold of my leg, but it seems to be waiting for something. I look around to see what it is only to find that I'm right next to the other harpy, the one I thought I had killed outright.

I seems I was wrong on that point. It stares at me balefully, its eyes shining with a hatred that is almost but distinctly not quite human. With a mighty grunt of effort interrupting its labored breathing, it raises itself up on its wings and begins to crawl in my direction, beak clanking slightly in anticipation of the kill.

_You have guns! Use them!_

I have guns. That's exactly the sort of thing you don't want to forget in the heat of the moment, so naturally it's exactly what I forgot. I guess I won't be getting my combat training badge after all.

The holster on my pistol is still unclipped from when I shot this big bird's buddy the first time, so I reach under myself and easily pull it out. As the harpy pushes its head forward for its first bite, I shove the barrel into its greedy, open beak and pull the trigger twice.

The back of its head explodes in a spray of blood and what I assume to be whatever it uses for brains. It then collapses, the sharp edge of its beak cutting my hand slightly on the way down.

The other harpy shrieks in anger and lets my leg go by way of tossing me over onto my back. My backpack and all of its contents cushion my fall much in the same way a pillowcase of bricks would have, causing my spine to become horrendously uncomfortable in several spots. I try to recover and draw a bead on the beast, but it brings a talon down on my left thigh and knocks my gun hand away with its head. I reflexively pull the trigger, wasting a bullet, and as I try to pull my weapon back in, the harpy clamps its beak down on my forearm.

The various shapes digging into my back remind me that I shoved the shotgun into the left side of my pack, so I reach up to grab it. The grip is in my hand, but with my weight on top of i-

"_Aaaaaaaaaagh!_"

The harpy has yanked my arm above my head as it slowly claws its talon down my thigh, cutting through the denim of my jeans and the flesh of my leg with equal ease. On the bright side, my involuntary writhing in pain enables me to pull the shotgun out from underneath my back bit by bit until it's free. I flip the safety off and point the gun as best I can at the harpy's chest. Suddenly sensing its new predicament, the monster lets go of my right arm and goes for my left, but it's too late. I pull the trigger.

Both my guns and the harpy hit the ground, the echoing boom being joined by the monster's death screech and my own cry of anguish as I ball up around my wrist.

Every single part of me hurts. Every single part. Both my legs burn. My torso feels stretched out. My head feels like it's going to explode. My right arm has been chewed on, and I think my left wrist is fractured. I don't . . . I think . . . I can't . . .

I didn't think I could go on. I just wanted to shut down, to stop feeling anything, even joy and happiness. If it meant I could stop feeling the pain I was feeling right then, I was ready to purge it all. Blood seeped out of the wounds in my legs, a splotchy red symbol of the suffering I was going through. I willed it to leave my body faster, to just let me bleed out so I could-

_Stop that! This is the here and now! You're stronger than this! Get up!_

No.

_Get up!_

No no no, I'm so tired, please just let me stay here. I'm hurt and I'm tired and I hate you and if I get up I'll just get hurt again and I can't take it anymore!

_**GET. UP. NOW!**_

"AAAAAAAAAAAAggck . . . _huuuuuuh_AAAAAAAAARRRR!"

It takes everything I have left in me just to push myself up to my knees. Holding my left arm up against my chest, I use my right to lever myself over into a sitting position. Once there, my thoughts scatter briefly while I pant heavily from the strain.

Once I can think straight again, I take off my backpack and set it in my lap. The Health Drink cans are dented from my fall, but the seals appear to still be intact. I pull them both out, then start to tap the top of one with an untorn fingernail. It still sends a few shivers of pain up into my hand, but these things are too valuable to just let them fizz out all over the place.

Figuring it's finally safe to open, I crack the top of the drink and start to greedily gulp it down. The wriggling sensation comes right on cue, but this time I'm not creeped out by it. In fact, it's almost comforting, and I feel a sudden desire to simply lay back down and let it do its job while I sleep. But this is too much job for just one drink. After I polish it off, I start tapping the top of the second.

As I do so, I stare up at the ceiling. Tears begin to streak down the sides of my face, and I silently wonder . . . what in the hell is wrong with me?

Thinking back on my actions, none of the last ten minutes or so make any sense to me whatsoever. I'm an angry person most of the time, yes. Living in a world filled with incurable idiots can do that to a person. But even taking that, adrenaline, and the frustrating strangeness of this town into account . . .

I've never been that furious before. Never that . . . _vicious_. I didn't just want to kill those harpies to let off some steam. I wanted to _hurt _them. I was ready to start torturing the second one I downed, and I don't condone torture, not under any circumstances. Not even these beasts deserve that.

So what the hell was I thinking? What have I been thinking this entire time, even? Is it really this town pushing into my head, like David said? Making me paranoid and enraged? Making me think that inflicting pain on other creatures is a good idea?

Maybe not. I lean forward, a different kind of pain filling my chest. Eventually a sob forces its way out. I squeeze my eyes tight, bare my teeth, but try as I might otherwise, I still remember. It started with the accident. I told Mom and Dad I was fine, that everything was okay, but I started arguing with them more and more as the weeks passed. Quinn I began to ignore outright.

And the great culmination of all of this, yesterday morning I just left them. I didn't want to admit it to myself at the time, but I ditched them purely so I wouldn't have to deal with them anymore. I didn't want to argue, I didn't want to listen to their shit, I just didn't want to have anything to do with them at all.

As distant and surly as I have always been, in the past few months it's been getting worse and worse, and I don't even know why.

But looking back on it, I think that if this town truly did do something to make me do what I just did, then all it's really doing is forcing parts of me that were already there out into the open, making them stronger. This is a distinctly disconcerting revelation, to say the least.

The second drink has finished its rounds through my system. I feel better - physically, at least - but I'm still pretty seriously injured. Pain shoots through my wrist even though I can move it now, and while the wounds in my legs have closed up, they still hurt like a son of a bitch as I try to stand. I can only walk with a very heavy limp, so gathering my weapons back up and reloading them is necessarily slow going.

At least my fingernails are all back in place.

Going through all the offices and desks on this floor might garner some more Health Drinks, but I'm just too damn tired at the moment for a room-by-room search. With all my gear back in place, I decide to go ahead and follow my one possible lead to something big. I push the ring of keys down into my jeans pocket and head toward the back of the building. If nothing else, maybe I can lock myself in one of the nice, safe cells and catch up on some rest.

As I limp along, I pull out the station map. The stairs down are in the back hall on the right. Easy enough as long as nothing stands between me and there. I've got my pistol out just in case there is, but at the moment I'm really hoping there isn't. And not just for my health's sake.

Speaking of which, there's a first aid station along the way, and fortune finally smiles. The door is open. Because it's sitting around the corner from the main lobby, however, the light doesn't filter in quite as well back here, so I have to flip on my flashlight.

The room is small, really just enough to get minor injuries patched up during the processing process or to deal with any prisoners that have decided to pick a little fight with each other downstairs. Anything more serious is probably taken to the hospital first and to the police HQ second.

My flash illuminates a small examination table in the middle of the room and a few cabinets lining the walls. A sink and accompanying counter run along one side of the room. A hanging from the wall by its own little clasp is one of the things I came in here looking for, a first aid kit.

Health Drinks are all fine and well, but as this latest incident has shown me, I can't always rely on them. My thigh and shin aren't bleeding anymore, but what if they still were? I'd be in some serious shit. I pull the kit off the wall, pop it open to make sure it's well stocked, then throw it into my backpack. I may not be able to use it for much more than minor injuries, but at least I've got it for a backup, and it might come in handy for wounds small enough that I don't need to waste a whole drink.

The cabinets are thankfully unlocked, but they're also filled mostly with stuff I don't have a need for or don't know how to use. I do manage to dig out a wrist brace, however, which I slip on my left arm and strap down tight. And hey, here we go, elastic bandages.

Personally, I'd prefer a brand new pair of jeans entirely, but these will have to do for a quick patch. Between the acid worm chewing through one leg of my jeans and the harpy tearing the other to shreds, I'm getting ever closer to wearing nothing denim scraps. I could just tear the legs away and go around with daisy dukes, I guess, but for one thing, no. For another thing, I'm not too keen on the idea of flashing my scars around no matter how few people are around to see them. And for a final thing, _hell_ no.

So I take the bandages and wrap them around the torn parts of my pants. Frankly, I kind of like it. Along with the rest of the crap I'm lugging around, I've got kind of a _Road Warrior _vibe going. If I weren't so attached to my green jacket, I'd consider looking for a studded leather model to replace it.

The last thing I snatch up before I leave is a large bottle of painkillers. There's probably some in the kit, but these will be easier to grab when I need them. I pop four of the pills in my mouth and store the rest in a side-pocket of my pack.

The stairwell is at the end of the hall, and it seems fortune's smile has turned into a cruel chuckle. No matter how many times I jiggle the handle, push down hard, plead and beg and threaten, it remains stubbornly locked. Through the small window set in the door, I can see the concrete steps leading up and down, mocking me.

Stupid stairs. They're probably sour anyway.

The lock on the door looks like it's built for just a normal key, so the set I found earlier won't be any help here. This is probably a sign that I should search this floor anyway, or maybe it's a punishment for not doing so. Resigned, I turn back the way I came. Just for giggles, I press the call button on the elevator next to the stairs.

A soft ding comes from behind me, causing me to spin around as quickly as my injuries allow. As I watch, jaw dropped, the elevator doors clunk open. Then, very carefully, I edge around so I can see inside the car itself, but everything looks perfectly normal. Interior handrails, wood paneling, tile floor. To all appearances, the elevator is fully functional and not actually an inter-dimensional vortex or anything else equally weird.

It's just a functioning elevator that operated in its prescribed fashion. I would not have called that one.

Slowly I board the lift, ready for anything to happen. Which it doesn't, but still I feel nervous. Being in a small cage of metal and mechanical parts is too much like being in an automobile for my tastes. But if it's what must be done . . .

I press the button marked "B" and shrink back as the doors close and everything starts to move around me. Other than the button, the only illumination in the car is from my flashlight, which only heightens my sense of paranoia. I keep imagining the cables snapping and dropping me the last few yards, my legs snapping from the impact or my neck breaking against the rail. I see the doors refusing to open at the destination and the whole thing shutting down, leaving me trapped in this makeshift coffin until I dehydrate or suffocate.

Just as the panic attack is about to hit in earnest, the doors ding open and I vault for open space. I skid across the bare concrete floor for a couple of feet, then lean on my knees and take in several heaving breaths before calming down. Ugh. Ugh ugh ugh.

Ugh.

Okay, where am I? The overhead florescent lights here are on but very dim. My flashlight makes up for the difference, showing me a very spartan waiting room of sorts. A few clunky chairs sit off to one side, and in the wall opposite me there's a counter with bars blocking off the small room beyond them. Heavy security doors to my right, regular double doors to my left. If I remember the map correctly, the latter leads to the boiler room and the former to my destination.

Normally I think I would have to be buzzed in to get past the security doors, but whatever electricity is running through the building apparently isn't enough to keep the lock clasped. I push it open easily with my hand and step through.

The cells are all to my left. Each is furnished with only a small cot, a toilet and a sink, and they're nothing but bars all the way down, no concrete walls set in between for privacy. Seven cells, seven keys, just as I'd predicted. I step up to the first door, pull the keyring out, and start trying each key in the slot one by one.

Nothing. Just to be sure, I try them all again. They go in, and it looks like it should work, but not a single one will turn. I try the door anyway, but it doesn't budge. Feeling a slight hint of aggravation, I move on to the second cell and give the keys another go.

Still nothing. I am not happy with this. If these aren't the holding cell keys, then what are they?

Third cell, still no luck. Fourth cell, exactly the same. By the time I'm walking down to the fifth, it's become something of a personal challenge for me. One of these doors will open to one of these keys. It _will_.

I'm working on the sixth when the slight sound of movement from the entrance tickles my ear. I snap my head around instantly, but the gloom is too thick in here for me to see much past the nearest two cells. The phone is staying silent, which makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle even more than if it had been making noise. It could be the relatively harmless Mordecai. It could be creepy David or dangerous Eric. Or maybe it's someone completely new, worse than all three.

Whoever they are, they're bound to have noticed me already. In this darkness, my flashlight would stand out like a lighthouse. I turn and slowly start back toward the security doors, but I don't call out. For one thing, I don't want them to hear the quaver that would undoubtedly be in my voice.

Gradually I can make out a human-shaped splotch in the darkness. I'm almost close enough to get my light right on them when suddenly they turn and run, the sound of rubber-soled sneakers smacking the concrete. I stand stunned for a full ten seconds, long enough for them to stop briefly at the first cell before pounding feet out the door.

I snap out of my trance and give quick pursuit, the whole time yelling, "Quinn? _Quinn!_"

That flash of red and pink. In my light so briefly, but it was her. It had to be her. It _had_ to be.

I slam into the doors and bounce back, forgetting completely that they open in, not out. Snarling, I yank one of them open and rush into the waiting area only to find it empty.

"_Quiiiiin!_"

The elevator is still open, so she didn't go that way. I scan the receptionist area beyond the barred window, but she's not crouched down back there. The only other way out is the boiler room, so I hit the double doors running.

Heat slaps me in the face the second I'm inside. Pipes are running everywhere, some of them steaming slightly, and a heavy boiler sits in the far corner of the room. I can almost feel the power it's containing within its heavy steel sides. I wonder if it's also hiding Quinn, so I run around to the other side to see if she's behind it.

No. I drop down, but she's also not underneath it, behind it, on top of it, or anywhere else in the room. The fuse boxes are flush with the wall, there aren't any more doors, the pipes are too small to crawl into, and there aren't any vents in the walls. This is a dead end, so I run back out into the waiting room to hear the elevator doors shut.

"No! Quinn! _Dammit!_"

The call button rattles as I press it repeatedly. The elevator's outer doors rumble as I pound my fist against them. I shout and call my sister's name and curse and scream, but when the lift finally cycles back down to my level, it's completely empty.

"_Shit!_"

I don't know how she could have hidden from me or gotten past me. I don't know for sure if she even got in the elevator. She could have used it as a distraction instead. Hell, I don't even know for certain that it was Quinn!

Pushing my glasses up on my head, I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes and growl out my frustration. Was it her? Was it someone else? I want to believe it was her, to believe that I've finally been handed proof that I'm not just chasing my own tail here, but I just don't know.

Hold on. She stopped at the first cell. Why? Was she hesitating, trying to decide if she should approach me after all, or . . . something else?

I step back through the doors and walk up to the bars, carefully looking over everything inside. There still isn't anyone in there, and there's nothing written on the walls. I stand on the tips of my toes to get a look inside the toilet, but I have to drop back down quickly as the pain in my legs starts to get unbearable. There's nothing in there anyway, at least nothing that can be easily seen from here.

Finally, I crouch down and look under the cot. Sure enough, just like anything else, what I'm searching for is in the last place. There's something small, flat, and roughly squarish in shape sitting on the floor there. Whatever it is, she either noticed it or threw it there before running on.

It and the cot are on the near side of the cell, so I scoot over to that corner and stretch my arm through the bars as far I can, but it's nearly a foot out of my reach. Grumbling under my breath, I dig around in my backpack and pull out my trusty old tire iron, then use the bent wrench head to snag the whatzit and drag it over.

Huh. It's a DVD case. The cover is blank white paper with the letter "D" written in red magic marker. Is this a clue? It may just be. Popping open the case reveals a disc, its label also blank white, except this time the red letter is a "Q" that circles around the center hole. Unless this is a collection of Dairy Queen adverts, I'd say clue status confirmed.

Except I don't have a DVD player. Swell. Guess I'm going back upstairs and checking all the rooms after all. There's probably a briefing room or something up there with a TV.

Case in hand, I head back to the elevator and force myself into it. After I press the button, I pull out the station map and start looking at the layout of the first floor in order to keep myself grounded, but I keep hearing the hum of the giant machine around me cranking itself up through the shaft. Clenching my jaw, I try not to think about the fact that if the cable snaps this time, I've got a lot further to fall.

The doors open, and I manage to walk out instead of run, albeit with a slightly staggering gait. What the hell, I'll call it a win.

Suddenly I forget all about my fear as the sound of footfalls comes from down the hallway, heading away from me. She was waiting! She waited for me to come back up!

"_Quinn!_" I yell as I pelt down the corridor as fast as my limp will allow me. "It's me! Daria! Quinn, just stop for a second!"

My legs are on fire by the time I reach the other end of the hall and run into the door there. Where is she? Where is she? I spin around, straining my eyes and ears both as I try to figure out if she got past me again. In a blind panic, I grab the door next to me and twist the knob, but it doesn't turn. I then try the door I just ran into and spill out into the next room when it suddenly opens.

It's small, this room, but there's a barred window and counter like the one downstairs. Beyond it is a wide open space with rows of shelves. I run up, grab onto the bars, and start to shout through them.

"Quinn! Quiiiiiin!"

Okay, even I'm starting to get annoyed by me saying that over and over again. But still I call out. If it was really her, I need her to know it's me, that I'm here to help her, here to take her home. She has to listen, has to come back. She _has _to.

There's another door next to the counter, so I snatch it open and rush into what looks to be a huge evidence lockup. Closer up, I can see that the shelves have several boxes and clear plastic bags holding various items, more than a few of them weapons. The advantages of this are immediately apparent, but I'm far too worried about Quinn to bother arming myself to the teeth right now. Besides, if she's in here and I can find her, maybe I won't even have to worry about guns anymore. Maybe we can just get the hell out of Silent Dodge.

I stalk through the aisles, swinging my flashlight around and calling out to her. Despite my worry, I still find my attention attracted to some of the more unusual items being stored. Here's a scalpel, dried blood still clinging to the blade. There's a can of chicken soup, dented on one side as if used to club someone's head in. Here's a paintball mask, undoubtedly used in a bank robbery or by a serial killer who's seen too many 80's slasher flicks. There's even what looks to be a preserved hand set in a glass case.

Even in the real world version of Silent Hill, the people here must be fucking sick in the head.

There! Someone running along one side of the room, trying to circle around me. "Quinn," I yell, "if you don't stop, dammit, I'll-"

I'm not sure what I was going to say or do, but all of a sudden it's very unimportant. The footfalls have stopped, but they've been replaced by the sound of a siren. Of _that_ siren, the one from the school. Only this time it's not starting off in the distance and getting louder. It's right here, as loud as a freight train, almost as if it's in the room with me.

My heart thumps rapidly in my chest and I feel like I want to dig out my own eardrums with my bare hands. In slow, stilted steps, I walk around the shelves until I've reached the outer wall on the west side. A window is there, bars partially obstructing the view to the outside. But I can still see the red and blue lights twirling in the air. I can see that they're coming from the top of the police car I noticed in the lot earlier.

I can see. _I can see._

And as I continue to watch and listen to the vehicle in horror-struck awe, hanging onto the bars to keep from getting thrown to the ground, the world around me changes into a dark, twisted shadow of itself.


	9. Alternate Police Station

I shut my eyes tight until the shaking stops. When I open them, the bars are still in my hands, but the window that was beyond them is gone. Instead, there is a section of the rust red wall plating missing, showing the gears and pistons and faulty wiring beyond, slowly grinding toward whatever mysterious purpose they were set.

The siren can still be heard just faintly coming from the other side of the wall. It's not a normal police siren, but it was definitely coming from the car, and for some reason that makes my skin crawl. The new context makes me feel . . . frightened. Sad. _Alone_. And I don't know why.

Turning around, I take in my new surroundings. From what little is illuminated by my flashlight, I can see that things are more or less the same as they were in the otherworld version of the school. Everything is metal, rusty and unclean looking. The shelves are still there as nightmare versions of themselves, but there are fewer of them and they have been completely cleared of all the evidence boxes and bags. So much for arming myself a little better.

_skrtch skrtch skrtch_

I'm not alone in here. The phone vibrates just enough to let me know they're a good bit off, and the scratching noises let me know there's more than one of them. Every once in a while I can hear the sound of metal tapping on metal, but it's not quite the same sound as the runners would make. No, this is something new.

Because of the wrist brace, I'm not sure whether I can trust myself to fire the shotgun just yet, so I pull out my pistol instead. I switched out the almost-empty clip earlier, and hopefully a full ten shots will be more than enough to take down whatever's stalking me.

And it is stalking me. As I step out amongst the shelves, I can hear the nature of the movement in the darkness change. They know I'm here. I can only hope that if that was Quinn I saw earlier and she's been transported here too, she's gotten past these monsters and found someplace safe.

There! Wait . . . no? I think I see something just beyond the range of my flashlight, but I can't be sure. Something . . . glowing.

I reach up and flip off my light. Sure enough, there's something out there, and it's looking right at me. I can tell because the glow is comprised of two small red dots, and as I watch them they start to move as one, tracking back and forth in my general direction.

And then it seems to move away a little bit, the sounds of its movements becoming unsure. Confused, I flick my light back on to see if I can tell what it's doing. The second I do, it's ugly little head snaps in my direction and I get my first good look at the new and improved version of demon squirrel.

I can see a small patch of pink flesh here and there on its back and sides, and it has the same general size and shape as the creatures from my dream, but that's where the similarities end. Where those were fully flesh and blood creatures, this is a little cyborg with metal plates running along its back and sides. Metal claws tip cybernetic limbs, and the tail is a series of coils, fat at the base and coming to a tapered end.

It looks at me through metal and glass orbs set in wide metal sockets, looking almost like the eyes of a Terminator. Metal teeth are bared at me from a metal jaw. And that's enough of a look, so I quickly turn the flashlight back off.

Almost immediately it loses me again, and it slowly dawns on me that the thing can't see me in the dark. I take a step to the left and further find out that it can still hear me. It takes a few steps in my direction and then hesitates when I don't make another noise.

Well that's good to know. What's not so good to know is that there are at least two more pairs of eyes glowing in the darkness, slowly making their way through the room.

Can I take them? Maybe. Probably. As long as they don't have laser beams or little machine guns strapped to their undersides, I think I can handle things. I've taken on worse already, right?

But I don't want to take them. A sinking feeling in my chest lets me know in no uncertain terms that I really, really don't want to. I just . . . I don't have any Health Drinks, and if they get any lucky shots in, I might be done for. I'm still hurting a little from my last encounter, which might throw me off. I might be better off waiting until I've got more ammo. I might come up with another rationalization instead of just admitting that damn it all to hell, I don't want to get in another fight with some ugly monster right now.

I'm still rattled by how I acted before, and where there was fear and anger then, now there's just fear. I need to just get past them and out of here without them noticing, which apparently I can only do that with the light off, but that means _I_won't be able to see either.

Swell.

I back away to give myself more time to think while they slowly make their way across the room. They're fairly well spread out. I can see that the eyes on either side of the room are nearly up against the walls, giving me space to get between them and the middle squirrel. But if they-

"_Ow!_"

Something just hit me in the back of the head! I spin around in the dark and lash out to hit whatever it is with the butt of my gun, but my hand passes through empty air. It then takes me a second to realize that all the noise I just made has attracted the demon squirrels again, and this time they're close enough not to lose me in the dark. Three pairs of red eyes are coming my way as metal claws go _click click click click_.

They're coming to fast for me to slip past them now, but I don't have to leave them a much an advantage in numbers. Taking aim is difficult when I can't see my own hands or gun, but I've still got a good enough bead on my target thanks to its eyes. I steady the pistol and squeeze of three shots in quick succession.

I'm not sure exactly how many of them hit, but at least one did. I hear a squealing as the red dots of the middle squirrel disappear, followed by the clanging sound of metal flopping around. At least I've given him something to think about.

Since my cover is already blown, I flip my flashlight on and try to fire at one of the other squirrels at the same time. The shot ricochets off the floor, missing the mark entirely, and bad luck because both monsters jump up at me at the same time, teeth gleaming.

I stagger forward from the sudden weight attached to my wrist brace and the sleeve of my jacket. I bang my right shoulder into one of the shelves and press up against it to stabilize myself, then I angle my pistol as best I can at the squirrel trying to gnaw its way through the brace's thick cloth. These things really are as heavy as a fair sized dog and as manic as their furry non-Satanic cousins, making the job very difficult at best.

Finally the barrel is pressed against its underside, which is still pink and soft and now open and bloody as two bullets tunnel in and thud dully against the underside of its backplate. It twitches a few times and then drops away, eyes going dead black.

The other squirrel missed grabbing any flesh itself, but it still has a death hold on my sleeve. Fortunately it's pressed between me and the shelves, so it can't move around for a better hold. Unfortunately, I can't get a clear shot at it this way. So I stomp down on it's rat-like tail and pull my arm up, letting the beast rip away a perfectly good bit of material from my favorite jacket in the process.

Free from one another, we both scrabble back to get a better assessment of the situation. And it's right about then that the first demon squirrel I shot lands on my back and bites hard into my neck.

"Son of a _bitch!_" I scream, pointing the gun back over my shoulder and taking a shot, hoping to scare it off. Apparently I did even better than that. Just like the one in a million sinking of a basketball thrown over the shoulder without looking, I plug the sucker right in the . . . somewhere. I'd know if I were looking over my shoulder, but the point is I hear the sound of the bullet making contact and a short squeak before I'm suddenly squirrel-free.

The remaining squirrel makes a leap for me, but the weight of its now-dead buddy already had me stumbling backward, so it's an easy enough matter to fall on my backside and let it sail over me harmlessly. This whole combat thing isn't so hard once you get used to it and manage to have a bit of dumb luck for once.

Of course, luck - dumb or otherwise - can have a way of turning against you. I pick myself up and look around to see where the last of my troubles has gotten off to, and there's nothing. Cagey bastard. Where did you get off to?

I spin around and fire, sure I heard something behind me. If there was, it's gone now, and only darkness sits beyond the reach of my light. I curse under my breath. With two bullets left in the clip now and only three in reserve, I really can't be wasting any shooting at phantom sounds. I could pull my shotgun now that things might be getting a little desperate, but the shells for it are even more precious at the moment.

Instead, I decide to put away my pistol and pull out the big bad bat. Carefully, ears pricked, I circle around slowly and look for even the slightest hint of red anywhere.

I'm not much of a baseball player. Or an any kind of player, for that matter. Dad tried to teach both me and Quinn how to play when we were kids, but naturally neither of us really took to it. She because it was something _boys _were supposed to do and I because it would require some amount of effort on my part. The result being that I'm not sure I can reliably hit anything other than defenseless file boxes.

But when the squirrel comes flying at me from where it's climbed onto one of the shelves, the swing I make is that of a champ. The bat connects with its metal skull with enough force to fling the squirrel off in a completely different direction than it was headed. This doesn't do my hurt wrist any favors, but I'm not really paying attention to that as I rush over to where the monster landed and bash the glow right out of its eyes.

Whoa, feeling a little wet around the collar.

Oh shit damn shit, the bite on my neck is bleeding. Not gushing or anything, but enough to have me a little worried. I wrap a hand around the wound to stem the tide, wincing at the pain. Celebration of my victory will to have to wait until I'm not in peril. Where's a damn Health Drink when you need one?

I set down my bat and shrug the pack off my back, very glad that I thought to grab the first aid kit. Opening it one-handed is a trick, but once that's done I pull out some gauze patches to staunch the blood better than my hand can do, then paste it all down with a wide, square bandage. I'd love to wash the wound out and put some antibiotic or disinfectant on it, but I'm figuring that clean water is hard to come by in this version of Silent Hill. It's patch work until I actually can find a drink.

After wiping as much of my own blood as I can off of my hands, I gather everything back up into my pack. While I'm at it, I switch over the three spare bullets over to my current clip. Six here and six shells in the shotgun. It's like it was meant to be, she thought dismally.

I should move on, but something doesn't sit right with me. And that something hit me in the back of the head earlier, so I'd like to find out what it is. I'll probably regret finding out, of course, and I'm not really wanting to get into yet another fight, but I figure I can give whatever it was a good stern talking to at least before I turn tail and flee like a frightened rabbit.

Stepping over the demon squirrel corpses, I make my way to the back of the evidence room once more, and . . . oh, okay. That's interesting. And it would have been nice to know before my little tussle, of course.

The object that hit me in the back of the head is, of all things, an old-fashioned tommy gun. My hand passed completely unobstructed underneath it because it's suspended from the wall by a strap hung on a katana that has its business end buried in the metal plating there.

That's just plain weird.

But then "weird" is par for the Silent Hill course, isn't it? I lift the heavy submachine gun up a little so I can get the leather strap over the hilt of the sword, then set it down before trying to remove the sword itself from the wall. It takes a couple of tugs, but I finally manage to lever it out, leaving behind a perfect little slit in the metal.

A very interesting choice of new weapons for my arsenal, I have to admit. And something of an unfortunate choice, as I know far less about how to use them. The tommy gun might not be too difficult to figure out, but just hefting the katana I can tell that it will swing far differently from the bat or tire iron.

Ted - a former boyfriend, of sorts - once offered to teach me how to sword fight. I wish I'd taken him up on that now.

I'm just about ready to set the thing down and leave it since I don't really have a way to carry it safely anyway when I notice the scabbard sitting on the floor right in front of me, nestled along the edge of the wall. Tch. _Fine_. I pick it up, slide the slightly curved blade in, and strap the attached belt around my waist.

Before throwing the strap over my head and arm so the gun sits behind my right shoulder, I look over the tommy gun to see what I'm working with. It has two underside grips - one behind the trigger and the other under the middle of the barrel - so it shouldn't be too hard to keep a hold on it while it does its thing. The bullets are in a straight magazine rather than the round drum usually seen in old mobster movies. It's fairly long, though, so even though I'm not going to take the time to count how many bullets it comes with, it seems pretty reasonable to assume it's enough for the job.

Strangely, though I'm now hauling a whole lot of gear, it doesn't really feel all that heavy. A bit awkward maybe, but not so much that I feel like it might start slowing me down. More of Silent Hill's wonky physics at work, I suppose, only this time working in my favor.

Given the low number of rounds left in my pistol, I decide to go with the shotgun instead, and my wrist be damned. The heavy firepower of the Thompson can wait until I'm in some really serious need, which hopefully I won't be. The doors leading out of the evidence locker open readily and I find myself in the transformed version of the station's back hallway.

Most of the doors are still where they're supposed to be, though as I walk along and try them, I find that a few have been walled up with only a slight door-shaped depression in the metal to show that I'm not just reading the map wrong. As I step out into the conjunction with the lobby, however, it hardly seems like there's any reason for the doors that are still there to exist anyway, since none of them will let me in.

Any chance of smashing through an office window is likewise removed from the equation thanks to the thick bars that have taken their place. And to think I used to find barred windows comforting. Now they're just a horrible inconvenience. Though in my defense, the bars on my old bedroom windows had been completely removed save for the stubs sticking from the sill.

_Do you hear that?_

Yes, little voice. I hear that. I wish I didn't. I wish I couldn't. Sweat begins to flow in earnest now, but despite the temperature, this sweat is cold. I stand frozen in place, listening to the awful scratching and tapping coming from the direction of the lobby. Slowly, breaking one joint out of its psychosomatic lock at a time, I turn to shine my light in that direction.

Then, with as much speed as I can muster, I throw my hand up to cover the light before its noticed. I can feel its warmth against my palm, and I belatedly realize that it's still shining through slightly, lighting up the back of my palm like a pinkish-red beacon. My thumb jerks around spasmodically to flick the flashlight's switch before the damn thing gets me killed.

Dozens of eyes wink at me from the lobby, bobbing and weaving like demonic will o'wisps. Some of the windows must still be open to the outside on that side of the building, letting in whatever passes for "light" in this world, because I can just make out the vague silhouettes of the demon squirrels snuffling around the twisted metal desks. Dozens of the beasts. An enormous hive of cyborg vermin, set and ready to swarm at a moment's notice.

And right in their midst, a harpy, it's metal wings stretched out to look like a gothic steampunk aficionado's wet dream. I only caught a glimpse of it when the light was on, and I have no desire to get any more than that. I watch the red eyes sitting higher than all the rest as they scan back and forth, then suddenly lunge down. A harsh squeal echoes against the walls, and then a crunching, snapping sound accompanied by rending metal.

My stomach's contents try to come up all at once. It's mostly used Health Drink, so the feeling in my esophagus is unpleasantly liquid. The bile burns in my throat, but I manage to choke it back down with some effort.

Even with the tommy gun, I'm no match for this army. I'm dead, so very dead, if I don't get away without them noticing I'm here. My heart is playing my ribcage like a xylophone, but I use my fear of the monsters finding me through blind luck to push past my fear that they might hear any misstep I make. As quietly as possible, I start putting one boot in front of the other as I cross the vast gulf separating me from the hallway on the opposite side.

Halfway across, I hear the ripping noise of yet another demon squirrel becoming the mecha-harpy's impromptu snack. The squirrels aren't exactly little, however, which makes that always-rational part of my brain wonder if maybe the giant bird is cutting them down for something other than simple sustenance. Maybe it just . . . enjoys it.

Shame from my own desire to wreak pain and havoc wash over me. I push the entire subject aside roughly. I can't afford the distraction right now. I'll muse about the harpy's motivations and why the squirrels aren't fighting back when I don't have to worry about both groups suddenly turning against _me_.

I make it all the way to the other side, though I flinched a few times along the way, thinking I had tromped down just enough to be heard. If I did, the monsters were apparently too busy milling about to notice. Though past the edge, I still move carefully as I go back to checking doors. No reason in getting this far only to slip up and bring everything crashing down on me.

Once again all the rooms remain barred from entrance. This is getting more than a little annoying. Having reached the end of the corridor, I press the call button on the elevator with a sigh that quickly reverses into a gasp when it opens with a very loud, very distinct _ding!_

"Oh," I breathe. "Shit."

I'm not sure if the rumbling I'm feeling is from the phone, my nerves, a stampede of demon squirrels, or some combination of all three. What I do know is that I have to move move MOVE. I'm already slamming my hand across the floor buttons as I'm stepping in, then continue to press them over and over again once I'm fully inside. Up or down, it doesn't matter, this elevator just needs to get its ass in gear.

It sounds like a million angry metal snakes are coming my way, tapping their long tails along the wall as they do so. Inhuman squeals of fury fill the lobby, clanging down the hallway and into my head where they viciously tear at my eardrums. They're coming and this damn thing isn't moving and I'm gonna get torn to pieces thanks to the slowest elevator in the fucking universe!

"Go, go, _go!_" I scream at the buttons, giving them a kick as extra incentive. Then, just in case, "Please!"

They're almost here. I can't pick my floor any harder than I already have, so I turn on my flashlight, step back into the middle of the car, and wait for the first ugly bastard to stick its head around the corner so I can blow its gahdamned head off. The second it does so, I let loose with a blast from my shotgun that almost deafens me in this confined area, but it also gives the three lead squirrels in the attack something to think about as their parts get spread across the corridor.

The doors are closing! Sweet Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, Eris, Atheia, and Agnostica, it's about damn time! The squirrels start to swarm around the opening again, but a second shot keeps them back. I kick at one that tries to hold on to one of the doors, then back up just in time to see the cruel red eyes and sharp beak of the harpy through the last sliver of space between the doors as they shut.

Then I nearly shudder my own bones out of my skin. I can still hear them scratching, the sound becoming faint but still audible as the elevator sinks, kicking my stomach up into my throat. The smell of gunpowder fills my nostrils, and I try to concentrate on that rather than the fact that I just riled up the pretty much unstoppable army that stands between me and the exit to the station.

The doors pop open and I walk out like a robot stuck in automatic mode. Plans to go up to the second floor and try to sneak around behind the squirrels half-form in my mind and then collapse when the stress behind my eyes comes crashing through them like a wrecking ball.

I'm just not cut out for this. I'm not the adventurer type. I'm not good in emergencies. Especially not when they keep coming so fast and so furious. There cannot be a crisis in the next room. My schedule is already full.

Huh. The next room. On a hunch I pull out the keyring I found in the fog world station and walk over to the doors leading to the holding cells. Once again they open with just a touch and I find myself back in pretty much the same room as before aside from the rust redecoration. Even the cots, sinks, and little toilets in the cells are pretty much untouched, as if there was already so much pain and misery to be had in the original that there was no need to try and make it even more depressing.

The only major changes I can see are the locks on the cell doors and - to my great surprise - a new door in the right-hand wall that wasn't there before. Ignoring it for the moment, I get closer to the cell locks for a better look. They're larger than before, and each one has a strange little picture engraved into the metal next to it. Taking a look at the keyring in my hand, I'm further shocked to see that all of the keys have the same pictures on their heads now.

Selecting one of the cells at random, I match it up with the key with the same picture on it, slide it in, and get ready for anything to happen as it give it a turn.

And what happens is that the door unlocks and opens with a heavy metallic groan. Interesting. I pull the key out and cautiously step inside, waiting for the door to suddenly slam shut at any moment, but as I give the cell a thorough search it remains perfectly well behaved.

There's nothing under the cot's filthy sheet or thin mattress, the murky toilet water doesn't seem to hold any clues, and the sink doesn't work, to no big surprise. There seems to be no reason for me to be able to get in here, and I get the feeling that checking the other cells will reveal more of the same. So it looks like it's time to see what's behind door number eight.

This one looks like any regular sort of door you might see in an office, aside from what looks like blood stains on its surface and a large metal plaque bolted just to one side of the frame. Shining the light on the plaque reveals, of all things, some sort of twisted nursery rhyme.

_The Eight Young Princes_

_Prince number one carried a gun_  
_And took his poor father's breath_

_Prince number two was not well to do_  
_And by others he increased his wealth_

_Prince number three desired all he could see_  
_Revolution, his way to the top_

_Prince number four would lock up the door_  
_'Til the screams of the innocent stop_

_Prince number five burned mother alive_  
_And the whole building as well_

_Prince number six, whether auto or sticks_  
_He had transportation to sell_

_Prince number seven sent sister to heaven_  
_An accident his hand had spun_

_Prince number eight became filled with hate_  
_When he saw all his brothers had done_

Eight princes, eight doors, seven keys. Great. Another damn puzzle, and I'm guessing I can't just spit on this one.

I re-read the poem twice more, though calling it that is rather generous on my part. Rhyming "breath" with "wealth"? Changing tenses in the fourth verse? Who does that? And for another thing . . . I don't like it. I just don't like it at all. There's something about it that's making my skin crawl, and it's not just professional offense or general creepiness. It's almost as if . . .

Get a grip, Daria. It's just some stupid clue, just like the paintings in the principal's office. Now, let's take a look at the pictures on the keys, shall we?

Really, where I take offense at the sloppy poetry, I think Jane would turn her nose up at the chicken scratches here. One symbol is just a square with a line through it, and another is a line with a circle next to it. If not for the fact that I've just found an unmistakable if simple engraving of a flame, I'd think it was all a bunch of nonsense scribbles.

Okay, the eighth prince is almost undoubtedly the door in front of me, which I'm guessing will unlock once I've unlocked all the cell doors in the order given by the poem. Fire key here has to relate to the fifth prince who burned down a building with his mother in it, so I open the corresponding door fifth. Now I just have to figure out how the other pictures fit into the pattern.

Ah-ha! Given that I'm in a police station, it should have immediately hit me that each of these princes seems to be committing a crime of some sort. So let's see, prince number one carried a gun and took his poor father's breath. Sounds like murder to me, so I start sorting through the ring, looking for the murder key. I'm about to throw the whole thing down in frustration when it suddenly hits me that the circle next to a line that I scoffed at before is supposed to be a bullethole, and the line is supposed to be somebody's chest, I guess.

Jeez.

Going back to the cell doors, I close and re-lock the one I opened earlier, then move over to the murder cell and pop it open. Thankfully my reading comprehension and retention is out the roof, so I don't have to go back and look at the plaque again for the second prince, who is obviously a thief. His key is just as obvious since it's marked with a slashed c, the standard cent sign.

Prince three is the revolutionary, so . . . treason? Usurper? Something like that. The remaining keys are the flame, the slashed square, a cartoony hand, the vague outline of a car, and finally a rectangle overlaid with an X.

A crossed out flag, maybe? I don't like this one. If I get it wrong, I'll probably have to start all over again and won't have any better clue as to what I'm doing. I'm already unsure about the first one as it is. I wonder if I might just be better off trying them at random until something clicks, but what the hell. I put the X-rectangle key in its door and open it up.

Prince four I'm drawing a blank on. What . . . oh, okay. False imprisonment. Because of the locked up and the innocent and the thing. And from the keys left that would be . . . the hand, holding someone back? Or no, the square with the line through it, representing a jail cell. Duh.

Door five is the flame, easily done, as is the car, though it takes me a second to realize that the sixth prince is a car thief or chop shop owner rather than a used car salesman. Not that I'm saying used car salesmen aren't criminals, of course. Which means by process of elimination, the hand has to be the seventh prince.

I'm not entirely certain what an open hand has to do with manslaughter, but so be it. If this is the right combination, then at least I won't have to agonize over how it has anything to do with any of the crimes listed here. With a grim hope that I got everything right, I slip the key in, turn it, and pull the door back.

The creaking groan of the metal hits my ears like nails on a chalkboard then stops, dropping the room into silence. I wait, heart beginning to thump rapidly, body tensed for anything.

I jump nearly a foot when the cell doors suddenly close all at once, the one I just opened jerking out of my hand and crashing shut with a resounding _clang!_Then, very softly, I hear a click come from behind me. After pulling the keyring back out of the lock and shoving it in my pocket, I walk over to the eighth door and turn the knob.

There's a small room on the other side with another door opposite this one. A bare bulb hangs from the ceiling, giving off just enough light that I won't need my flashlight inside to see. On one side of the room there's a folding chair and a table, the latter of which has a few small items sitting on it. On the other side is a wheeled stand with a TV and DVD player.

The door closes behind me once I'm inside, and that's just fine with me. I hope it's locked, too. I really don't want to go back into the station anyway or have anything that's in the station coming in after me.

I walk over to the table and take stock of the items sitting on its rotted surface. Two pistol clips, ten shotgun shells, a clip for the tommy gun, and - hallelujah and hellfire - three count 'em _three _Health Drinks! I immediately snatch one up, crack it open, and start guzzling it down.

The feeling is simply beautiful. My wrist and legs almost immediately feel better, and the bite on my neck stops itching and starts wriggling. I also feel like a million pounds of weight have been lifted off of my shoulders, causing me to suddenly burst into a half-laugh, half-cry as I collapse into the rust-eaten chair. The feeling doesn't last forever, unfortunately, but I enjoy it while I can, and I still feel a little more optimistic than before.

I saw Quinn. I know I did now. And she's still close, I can feel it. Maybe she was even the one who set all this out for me. She's acting weird, not wanting me to get near her for some reason, but maybe she's still wanting to help me along until we can actually come face-to-face again.

Speaking of her helping me, I guess now's as good a time as any to finally see what's on that DVD that she left behind. I dig it out of my backpack and pop open the tray on the player.

Eugh. Doesn't anyone around here clean up? This thing looks as decrepit as everything else around here, with small, dense pockets of spiderweb clinging to its insides and bits of schmutz clinging to almost every surface. I try to wipe some of it out of the tray as best I can with the hem of my jacket, but much of it clings stubbornly to the plastic. Giving up and letting entropy do its thing without any more of my interference, I plop the disc in and push the tray closed.

The TV burns to life slowly, as if unused to this whole "electricity" thing I'm forcing on it. By the time it lights up fully, the disc has already started displaying a menu with only two options, PLAY and CHAPTERS. Picking up the remote sitting next to the player, I try to go to the CHAPTERS option, but it merely glitches up the screen and then dumps me back at the main menu. With a frown I decide to just start it blind.

I snort in surprise as I see myself walking up to Mom's SUV and getting in the driver's side door. The shot is tight, almost right behind my back, and I'm lit up by artificial light, suggesting that it must have been during the night or late evening when this was filmed. But _which_ night or late evening was this filmed? I've driven the SUV a few times before and I don't remember anybody-

_The accident._

Oh, no, come on. You've got to be wrong, little voice, because that just wouldn't be fair. I don't want to see this. Living through it once was enough. I quickly skip ahead to the next chapter and immediately drop the remote, pushing back in my chair hard enough to send it crashing against the table. I can distantly hear a couple of things drop to the floor behind me, but the only thing I care about now is what's in front of me.

"Oh God. Oh no. No, God, no, please," I beg. "Please _no_."

Quinn is on the screen now, taking up almost the entire shot. It's a closeup of her meticulously made up face framed by her flaming red hair. She's looking at something just off-camera, and her mouth is wide open, showing every perfect tooth as she _screams _over and over again. Screaming for everything she's worth, as if fear itself was something real and tangible and had appeared before her in the flesh. There's no sound, her screams thunderously silent in my ears, but there doesn't need to be any sound.

Because now I'm screaming too.

I don't remember lunging forward at the television, but I find myself on my knees in front of it, dragging my fingernails across the screen as if I can claw my way in to save her. My scream has degenerated into a low whine in the back of my throat, pitiful and mewling and fitting my feelings exactly.

She's afraid, so afraid, and I can't help her. Someone is scaring her, might even be hurting her, and they recorded it and now I'm watching it. Watching it and unable to do a damn thing about it, except there is one thing I can do about it, I can hunt these bastards down. I will hunt them down, and I will find them, AND THEN I WILL-

_What? What, Daria? Exactly what are you going to do to them? Kill them? Hurt them? **Torture** them, just like you were going to do to that harpy?_

"Shut UP shut UP shut UP shut UP," I chant, pressing my fingertips painfully into the sides of my head.

_Break their bones, tear their flesh, rip out their gizzards and feed it to them . . . _

I jump up and start pacing back and forth in the small room, repeatedly punching the air in front of my face, stopping just short of actually hitting myself. "Fuck you, little voice! _Fuck you!_ Get out of my gahtdamned _head!_"

_Or maybe, just this once . . . maybe you could forgive them._

"_No!_" I shout adamantly, stomping on the ground for emphasis. "No, little voice, that's something I'll _never_ do. Never, _mother-gahtdamn-fucker!_"

In one smooth motion, I pull out my bat and swing it hard into the side of the TV set, sending it flying to the floor in a shower of sparks.

"Now you shut up, you shut the _fuck_ up, or I swear I'm going to take this bat and I am going to smash you straight out of my head. I will take this sword and I will _dig_ you out. If I hear one more word out of you - One. More. Word. - then I will take you down even if it means I go with you. Do you _fucking well understand?_" I bellow, slamming the bat into the broken TV with each syllable.

Silence.

Unbroken silence save for the heavy sound of my breathing. I drop the bat, fall down hard on my knees, then scurry into the corner to vomit noisily. Once that's finished, I scoot away to fall back on my butt and cry into my knees for several minutes.

This has happened before. The little voice. My friendship with Jane was still fairly new, and she had been my first actual friend ever, so I was a little . . . _protective _of our friendship and time together. When she joined the track team and started seeing that Evan guy, I didn't take it too well and started talking to myself. The only problem with this was that myself started talking back.

Fortunately things managed to straighten themselves out and the voice went away. For the most part, anyway. Ever since then, on very rare occasions when I've been under undue stress, I've been able to hear it. Usually only a sentence or two, but it's always unmistakably that voice, some separate, secret part of me buried deep underneath my conscious mind.

It's happening again, of course, and it's been getting worse and worse since I arrived here. It's also been helpful every once in a while, to my surprise, but I just . . . I can't deal with it right now. I can't deal with anything right now. But I have to. I have to pick myself up, just like I have every time before. And maybe I'm finally done with just dealing with things.

I reach out to grab the baseball bat, then use it to haul myself back up to my feet. After slipping it back into the pack, I start sorting through all the stuff that was on the table and squirrel it away as well.

One of the Health Drinks fell over earlier, but it didn't roll off onto the floor with most everything else. Instead, it seems to have gotten caught on something that had apparently been sitting underneath it. I pick the small item up and turn it in my hand. Yet another key, this one with a leather keychain marked with a tree and the number "334-A". This stirs something in my memory, so I pull out the town map. Right on the opposite side of the block is a set of apartments named Silent Tree.

So, I've got ammo. I've got some healing supplies. I've got a new clue. And after a moment's thought, I decide to pop the DVD back out of the player. Rather than break it half and stomp on the pieces like I oh so want to do, I put it back in the case, so I've got that, too. As one final step, I pull the tommy gun around to arm myself.

Here I come, Silent Hill, and as of right now I am officially sick of your shit.

I open the door opposite the one I came in through, and on the other side there is a flight of stairs going up. The darkness in the stairwell is different from how it was in the building, similar to what it was in the lobby. My suspicions regarding this are proven correct when I get to the top and find myself stepping out into the police station's parking lot.

At least, that's what it's supposed to be in correlation to the sishpid building sitting nearby. Just like everything else in the otherworld, it doesn't really bear any sort of resemblance to it's fog or real world self. Instead of asphalt, everything is the same metal plating interspersed with chain-link and massive grates. The sky above it is nothing but an inky black darkness, and I have to turn my eyes back down to the horizon as vertigo hits. Bleh.

Whatever is behind the police station is blocked from my view by a high wall. The exit from the lot is also inaccessible thanks to a series of barbed wires running from that wall to the back corner of the building. Just in case I don't get the message, the rusty fence is also covered in yellow police tape warning me not to cross. I could try to cut through it with my katana, but there's probably just another batch of wire on the other side, so I leave it alone for now.

Walking out into the middle of the lot, I see the outline of the single police car still sitting where I saw it earlier. Surprisingly enough it still looks like it should, but that just makes it creepier in a way. At least the lights are off and it's not making that spooky raid siren noise anymore.

Wait, what am I thinking? Another siren means I'm going back to the fog world! Play, you bastard, play!

Bah, stupid piece of shit. I nudge the trunk rudely with my hip as I pass around to the side, like I'm some brainless bully type and it's a helpless geek trying to carry too many books. Shining my light through the window shows that the interior has apparently been stripped of any weapons or other supplies, if there had been any in the first place. I was kind of hoping for a couple more shells or clips, at least, but no such luck. Useless, just like the cops who drive it. Figures.

The fence is still up along the Gibson Street side of the lot, so I start walking toward the far end. Something's going to jump out at me at some point, of course, but with the comforting weight of the tommy gun in my hands, I'm not feeling too worried about it.

That is, until I hear the squealing metal noise behind me, just like the one I heard when Dad's car blew up at the inn. It needles directly into my eardrums, but this time I fight the urge to simply cover my ears and cower. I turn around and watch as the dim shape of the cop car begins to twist and contort. My teeth are on edge, but I keep the tommy gun up and ready.

Instead of exploding, the car _stands up_. I'm not entirely sure my eyes are seeing that right, but before I can move forward to shine more light on the subject, light shines itself on me, nearly blinding me and sending my cellphone into a complete fit. The light comes from two separate but evenly lined up sources. A rumbling growl fills the air.

It's the thing from the gym, and I'm scared, so scared. But you know what?

_Fuck _the thing from the gym.

A howl of defiance escapes my throat as I close in on the thing and open fire. The gun bucks in my hands, jackhammers into my shoulder, but I keep steady hands on it. The wrist brace actually helps me keep my aim steady a little, making me glad I never took it off. Not every bullet hits, but enough do, and one in fact slams into one of the lights and smashes it.

The thing stumbles back, the beam from its remaining light flailing in the air like a lightsaber gone mad. I let loose another round of bullets, bouncing off of thing's body with the sound of metallic ricochets. It seems to fall forward a little, so I let off so I can get a better look at what I'm dealing with.

From about the waist up, it's metal, but undeniably female, like someone took the concept of a breastplate to an illogical extreme. Just above this I can see that the lights are coming from the shoulders, from what look like headlights on a car. The arms are large, beefy, almost as big around as I am. So are the legs, and all of its limbs are bare. The head . . .

It doesn't really have a head. The metal from the chest simply keeps going up as a flat sheet that meets in a massive wedge shape, almost as tall as the torso itself appears to be.

And then the damn thing stands up. Eight feet tall, at the very least. Maybe bigger. My jaw drops open as the dead light in its right shoulder suddenly begins to glow. A new bulb sprouts from the recess, and the glass seals back over it. The thing stands there like I haven't even shot it at all.

I start to back away, and just in time. The thing reaches down and picks up something long and heavy that I would swear was not there a moment ago. I turn and go from backing away to flat out running in the opposite direction from this monster when I see that the something is an impossibly large club made of twisted, jagged metal.

And as the club comes down mere inches next to me, making the ground beneath my feet shake and buckle slightly from the impact, I begin to think I may have just made a very big mistake.

The growling noise - its _motor_, it's got a fucking _motor _inside of it - suddenly runs high and I can hear its bare feet pounding on the ground as it chases after me. A second or two later these noises are joined by a heavy scraping as it drags the massive club along with it. This seems to slow it down a little, but it's still coming up fast on me. Too damn fast, like a runaway freight train.

I hit a wall, breathe in, and take off to the right. The club slams down behind me and I'm left with only my own light to see by for a few seconds. When the thing turns to continue the chase, I can see that I'm now in what might have been an alleyway before the siren. My footfalls echo back to me from the metal walls binding me on either side, just barely audible over the tromping of the monster. I look over my shoulder and dodge to the left as the club comes down again, almost squashing me flat.

The tremor from that strike causes me to stumble a little, losing precious time. It's already on me and getting ready to swing again, so I spin around and empty the tommy gun, aiming as best I can at the lights. One of them shatters, sending the beast to scream out in basso profondo pain and drop to one knee. Taking advantage before it can get back up, I resume my headlong sprint as I try to switch in the spare clip.

I curse vehemently as another wall suddenly jumps in my way, then turn left. This corridor is short, and by the time I reach a right hand turn the monster is once again upon me.

This is ridiculous! Apparently I can't damage the thing! I can only stall it for a few seconds! What the hell am I supposed to do, Silent Hill? I can't run forever! I'm already starting to get a stitch in my side! What kind of sadistic game is this?

As if the town was reading my mind - which it almost undoubtedly is, of course - the walls next to me suddenly fall away, though not by much. Instead of monolithic walls, there are buildings blocking me on either side now. The apartments, I'm guessing, so I swerve over to the right, both to avoid another blow from the monster's club and to get a closer look at the doors.

My eyes aren't that great even with the glasses, so the numbers are all blurry as I zip by them. I need a breather, so the second I get a safe moment, I turn and unload a burst of bullets into one of the monster's lights again. With it down for a second, I run over to one of the doors for a closer look. 329-B.

My pursuer starts to get up again, but I still need a second so I sweep its chest, taking out both lights at once. Any hope that doing so might have taken the thing down completely is dashed as it doesn't look any more winded than before. Snarling at this, I run over to the other side of the alley and end up in front of apartment 330-A. Excellent.

I resume running and quickly find myself at a dead end made of . . . a big rig of some kind? Some large vehicle laying on its side in the middle of the alley anyway. Doesn't matter, the last apartment on the left is 334-A. I fumble the key out, turn it in the lock, and rush in with the monster right at my heels.

A bellow of frustration rattles my teeth even through the heavy door, but then all I can hear are some shuffling noises. It's not going anywhere, but it's not coming in here either, thank goodness. I take two steps forward and promptly collapse on the floor, sweat fairly pouring off my body and making a puddle under my face.

Or maybe it's drool. I don't know and I don't care, I just want to sleep for a decade, or at least until my lungs and leg muscles don't hate me anymore.

Just a few more minutes, Mom. I swear I'll get up. I just need a few . . . more . . . minutes . . .

The sound of movement comes from further back in the room, and I let out a whine. So I'm a whiner now. I think I deserve the privilege of being a big baby for a few seconds. But despite how absolutely awful I feel, I push myself up and look at what fresh hell is being thrown at me. And then I laugh, a chuffing sound that feels like knives in my chest. This has got to be the least threatening monster I've ever seen.

It's . . . fat. There's really no other way to put it. It's roughly humanoid shaped, but not human by any means. No fingers or toes to speak of on its roughly cylindrical limbs. The head is a big round ball, its only features a pair of eyes staring out at me from deep within its rumpled flesh. No genitals, bellybutton, nipples, or anything else on its torso. It's like someone stole Poppin' Fresh's hat and neck scarf and then literally wiped that stupid grin off his face.

After taking a few ponderous steps in my direction, it flops back to sit on the ground and just looks at me. Which is a little creepy, sure, but not nearly as much as anything else I've met so far. Of course, that's probably just its clever disguise before it pops open and little acid tentacles sprout out to burn my face off.

"Shit!" I yell, turning back toward the door as it's suddenly hit with a metric fuckton of force. I think the beast outside has finally decided it wants to come in for a little chat. Given the way the door and wall surrounding it is dented inward slightly, I also think it has a very good chance of being able to do just that.

"So," I say, turning to the fat lump, "I don't guess there's a back way out of here?"

It stares at me, uncomprehending.

"Don't know, huh? Figures." Another slam causes me to jump, and I back away from the door. This brings me closer to the lump, but at this point I figure I'll just have to take my chances.

Just in case, though, I glance over at it to make sure it stays put, and that's when I notice to my alarm just how human its eyes are. I do a double take, then look closer. They're a strange shade of blue that almost approaches grey. I notice that they're tracking me as I move, and that they are the saddest looking eyes I have ever seen in my entire life.

Now _that's _disturbing.

Another slam, and the door is starting to buckle. I stick my head through the doors surrounding the living room and down the hall, but everything is sealed up tight from the outside. If there were any windows, they're covered by metal now. I'm stuck in here, just me and the fat lump, and this huge scary monster that makes me want to pee myself is about to be a whole lot less right outside and a whole lot more right here in front of me. I need to get out of here, I need to get out, I need-

Wait! The acid worm, back at the school! After I killed it, I popped back into the fog world, so maybe this is the monster I need to kill to get back this time! Dammit, except the thing shrugged off my bullets, and what parts I injured regrew. How am I supposed to kill . . . it?

The lump touches my sleeve and then settles back down, staring at me. Disgust runs through my body, but at least it didn't attack me.

_Kill it._

Oh, little voice, I thought we talked about this and oh no you're right. Disgusts runs through me again, but for another reason. I turn fully toward the lump. The monster outside isn't the one I need to kill. _This_ guy is.

I think I'm gonna be sick.

"No, there's got to be another way," I say out loud, trying to convince myself. "I'm not killing something that isn't going to fight back. I can't. I won't."

_Then you will die._

"What kind of sick fucking logic is that?"

_The only kind you have._

"This is just another bullshit symbol, isn't it? Some kind of life lesson I'm supposed to learn, right?"

_There's no time to explain it or argue about it._

The door bursts off its hinges. When I pull my arms down from in front of my face, I see the beast outside bent down, looking in through the frame. It stands back up after a second and once again slams its club against the wall to widen the opening.

I pull out my pistol and point it at the lump's head. It ignores the weapon and continues looking up into my eyes. I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't . . .

"I'm so sorry."

I close my eyes.

I don't even hear the shot. The only thing I hear before the siren starts is the sound of an empty shell bouncing off the ground. Complete darkness descends, and when it lifts I'm on my knees in the middle of a modestly furnished apartment. The lump is gone and the front door is fully intact.

I'm crying, and I don't even know why exactly. Somehow I feel even more alone than I did before, like I lost something that I was clinging onto long after I thought I'd been rid of it. Which is a very specific feeling for not knowing where it's coming from, but it's genuine. It's mine, and I hold it for a few moments as my tears soak down into the carpet where they hit.

The loss is still there when I stand up, but I think I can bear it now. Even though it's stupid, irrational. Whatever.

I open the door to see that the beast is gone, and besides the fact that eerie fog is covering everything, my surroundings look at least somewhat normal. Then the cloth covers my face, I struggle for a few moments, and everything goes


	10. Asylum

___I dream about Tom and Trent._

_Weird thing to dream about at a time like this. Weird to know that I'm dreaming at all. I'm in that strange state where I know I'm asleep and can even sense to some degree the position of my body - on my back, legs and arms straight - but my dreaming state isn't lucid. I can only watch passively as events unfold before me._

_Events, I might add, of which I'm already perfectly aware. In my normal dreams, things tend to get surreal fairly quickly, even though they also involve people, places, and things that I'm familiar with. What I'm seeing now are more like memories, however, thoroughly realistic and based completely on what I remember happening._

_Trent was my first crush. He embodied so many things that I viewed as "cool" when I was younger. The slacker attitude, the lanky frame, even the tattoos and piercings. And he was - and still is, actually - in a band. Which is the magical phrase for any teenage girl, I think, as if being "in a band" automatically makes someone cool even if the band in question is awful._

_Which, let's be honest, Mystik Spiral most definitely is. They've got some promise, but they don't practice as often or as seriously as they could. And that was part of what led to the downfall of my crush._

_Trent is nice. I still like Trent. He's a great guy. But even though he had so many things about him that I was attracted to superficially, I eventually learned that these were not the things I wanted in someone I would actually spend my life with. Yes, I slack myself, but not on the things that are important. As nice as Trent is, he's unreliable, and that would have gradually eaten away at any relationship with him._

_So I let the crush go._

_And then there was Tom. Tom and I . . . well, it's very complicated in its simplicity._

_I stole Tom from Jane. I don't bother trying to deny it to anyone anymore, not even myself. I didn't mean to, of course, and it's not like he's totally blameless, but still, I wanted it as much as he did. With him it was the total opposite of Trent. I wasn't attracted to how cool and different he was, I was attracted to how much he and I were alike. Even now we have a lot of the same interests and attitudes, despite our different upbringings._

_But that, I think, is what caused us to eventually break up. We had our problems as a couple, but what ultimately drove us apart was that we were just too similar and it got boring after a while. The relationship had run its course, so I ended it._

_Except . . . I didn't really, did I? At one point I thought I had shoved aside any thoughts of Trent, but they came screaming back not long after. It took him actively blowing off something that was extremely important to both me and Jane to finally close that door forever._

_And if honesty with myself really is what I'm going for here, the severance from Tom wasn't exactly clean either. So many nights I would find myself picking up the phone and automatically start dialing his number. Five numbers in and I would cancel the call, staring at the phone and trying not to let the vise suddenly trying to grip my heart take hold._

_I found that I couldn't watch bad movies without missing his arm around my shoulder. I lost the piercing critic for my stories, the voice of reason that made me so mad sometimes, the understanding and the patience. We were still ostensibly friends, so supposedly I could still get many of those things from him. But even if we weren't taking a break from each other, which we were, it still wouldn't have been quite the same._

_Not that I was going to try and get him back. I learned my lesson with Trent. There's no point in trying to force something that just isn't going to work. But the feelings were still there regardless._

_So I ran away from them. One of the reasons I left Lawndale so early was to get away from the psychic pollution left in the wake of our breakup._

_Just like I left to get away from Jane, the way she almost seemed to be watching me constantly. To get away from Mom and Dad and their constant fretting._

_To get away from Quinn._

_Well. We see how well that one worked out._

_But . . . even as I'm remembering Tom, I think I might finally be ready to move on from that episode, just like I did with Trent. Maybe it's just the dream talking. I don't know. But we never would have worked out. Staying with or going back to him simply would have made both of us miserable. Ending it before one or both of us really got hurt is simply for the best._

_Man, I really hope I remember all of this after I wake up._

* * *

I come to in a small room dimly lit by the fluorescent bulbs overhead. Next to me are a rolling tray and a plastic and metal chair, like from a cheap hospital waiting room. I'm on a cot and my left wrist is handcuffed to a handicap bar running along the wall.

I'm somewhat concerned.

At least I'm still wearing most of my clothes. My jacket and backpack are missing, as are my boots and socks, but at least I've still got my shirt, jeans, glasses, and - most importantly - my underwear. The bandages are missing from around my legs, leaving the scar tissue underneath perfectly visible through the gaping holes in my pants. "Concerned" has just been upgraded to "slightly pissed".

Just as I'm about to start venting my anger, there's a knock at the door. If it's my captor, at least he has some kind of manners. I'll have to remember that and politely kick him in the balls the second I get the chance. I decide not to answer and simply wait until the door opens and in steps David, to nobody's particular surprise.

"Oh, you _are_ awake!" he says when he notices me sitting up and trying to bore a hole into his head with my eyes. In his hands he holds a plate, which he takes over to the rolling tray before sitting down and scooting close to me.

Not close enough for me to actually grab him, of course. The bastard.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asks.

I rub my free hand over my face and sigh. "Was that chloroform?"

"Yes, sorry about that."

"You know it could've killed me, right?" I demand angrily. "It could have given me a heart attack. I have a family history, you asshole."

The look on his face is priceless. It almost reminds me of how my old Language Arts teacher Mr. O'Neill would look after someone called him out on saying something stupid. Which was most of the things he said.

"I didn't know-"

I lift the handcuffs and rattle them against the handicap bar, interrupting him. "Let me go."

"Well now, see, I can't do that," he says, trying to sound reasonable. "I brought you here so we could talk. Here, I got you something. You can eat while we talk."

He pushes the tray over, and I look down at the slab of slightly pinkish meat on the plate. It's cooked, but I don't immediately recognize what it is. Pork, maybe, or turkey. It's too big to be chicken, unless it came from some kind of processed loaf.

"No, thanks," I tell him.

"Aw, come on. You've gotta be tired of those Health Drinks by now. It's good for you! I cooked it myself!" He tears off a small bit and pops it in his mouth, chewing it with relish. "See? Perfectly safe, and miiiiighty tasty!"

"Where's my stuff?"

He bites his lip and hesitates. "In the next room over," he finally says.

"I want it all back."

"Yes, I'm sure you do, but if you'd just talk to me-"

"I _am_ talking to you, and I'm telling you that I want you to let me go and give me back my stuff right this second."

The friendly act drops like a 16 ton weight. It's replaced by a cold glare that I only get to see for a second before he swats the back of his hand across my face, knocking my glasses askew and forcing a surprised scream of pain from my lungs. Holding my sore cheek in my free hand, I look back up to see that he's standing over me, his face dark with anger.

"You know, some people would actually have the decency to be afraid of the guy who just drugged them and chained them to a bed," he says in a flat, emotionless tone. "I am trying to be reasonable here. I am trying to be a good host. Do not sass me, little girl."

Every fiber of my being tells me not to take this guy's shit, that he's just another Silent Hill monster I have to deal with. Every other fiber of my being is scared shitless. If little voice had any kind of advice to give, now would be a good time. But it stays stubbornly quiet for once, so I stay quiet as well and concentrate on not wetting myself.

"Now," David says, sitting back down, "let's talk. I brought you here so I could apologize for my actions earlier. You were right. I shouldn't have tried to kill that guy. That was . . . inappropriate of me. And maybe I should have let you know that I was following you. But . . . I only did these things because I care about you, Melody! I know we've only just met, but I think there's a real connection between us!

"And, well," he continues, suddenly bashful of all things, "there's the whole 'we're in an apocalyptic wasteland' thing we have to consider."

Despite my fear, I can't help but let out a "_What._"

He rubs the back of his neck and fidgets nervously. In anyone else it might be kind of cute, but under the circumstances his mask of humanity just makes it all the creepier.

Oh, dammit. I thought he was kind of cute when we first met, didn't I? Way to pick 'em, Morgendorffer.

"Well," he says, "you know. We might be two of the only people left on the planet. We'll need to . . . repopulate."

I'm not sure what's more disturbing, what he's suggesting or the fact that he's suggesting it because he obviously doesn't know our real situation despite having been here longer than me. No, scratch that. What he's suggesting is definitely the most disturbing thing, and I can feel my blood turning to ice water just at the thought of him _touching_ me, let alone doing . . . doing _that_.

I don't think he can recognize the obvious disgust and fear on my face, because he's looking at me almost expectantly, waiting for my answer. And given the circumstances, I'm not entirely sure what my answer is going to be. Next time I might get more than just slapped.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. I swallow, getting some spit worked up for my suddenly dry throat, then try again. What comes out surprises me almost as much as it does him.

"Can I have a fork?"

He blinks. "I'm sorry?"

Thinking fast, I glance over at the tray next to me and say, "I think I'll try eating after all. Could I get a fork?"

"Um . . . I don't think that's the best idea," he says, eying me suspiciously.

"I'm not going to try and hurt you with it, and I'm not asking for a knife," I tell him in as meek a tone as I can manage, then raise my cuffed hand. "It's not like I could get to you with it or anything. I just think I might be a little more amenable toward hearing you out if you didn't force me to eat like an animal. We human beings gotta stick together, right?"

Hearing his own words echoed back at him apparently does the trick. "Okay," he says, some of the old friendliness seeping back into his demeanor. "I'll go see what I can find. You just sit tight, okay?"

As if I'm going to be sitting any other way around you. Jesus.

And after he leaves, I work on not having to sit around anymore at all. Flipping around on the cot, I put both my feet up against the handicap bar with my cuffed hand between them. He said my stuff was in the next room. Hopefully that wasn't a lie or this is really going to suck.

Okay, Daria, you can do this. You can do it. Shit. Shit shit shit. This is going to hurt so damn much, but I can do it. I can do it I can do it I can do it. And with four quick breaths and a soft cry of anticipation for the pain to come, I try to fold my fingers in as close as I can and PUSH!

"Aaaaa . . . rrrrr," I wheeze, clamping my throat down on the scream that's trying to rip its way past. It feels like my hand is being ripped off, it feels like the skin is pulling right off the bone, but that might because that is _exactly what is fucking happening!_

Looking down I can see blood, and it's dripping down onto the cot, staining the already nasty grey sheets bright red, but still I pull and I pull and I _pull_ until suddenly I come free and fall off the side to hit the ground with my spine.

_That's okay, that's okay, just take a few seconds to roll around on the ground in pain. That's okay. But hurry up and get out before he gets back._

Oh, hello little voice. How nice that all it took to bring you back was a little self-mutilation. But yes, time to get up, time to see how things are going with my extremities. Oh, wow, would you look at that. That should make an interesting scar, like a thin little skin bracelet. Quinn will be so jealous.

Heheh. Heh.

My teeth grind against each other as I continue to keep up my streak of not screaming, now compounded with trying to not giggle maniacally. I stand up, cradling my hurt hand to my chest, and pad over the door. The tile is cold against the soles of my feet. I try to concentrate on that rather than the ball of fire attached to the end of my wrist and thoughts that my pinkie finger might have gotten snapped at some point during the process.

I stand with my ear up against the door, listening. Either David isn't immediately outside, he is outside and isn't moving around, or this door is soundproof either way. I hope for the first and turn the knob. Thankfully the door is open, probably since he didn't think I'd be getting up and wandering out any time soon.

The hallway is dark, but just lit enough to tell that it's also empty. There's a small alcove to my right with a couple of double doors leading off from it and a third door marked as a unisex restroom. More doors line the hallway off to my left. I immediately duck into the one next to the room I was just in.

Whatever else David may have lied about, he wasn't trying to trick me about my stuff being in the next room. I sigh with relief when I see my missing clothes and gear sitting bundled in the far corner next to the rumpled cot. The first thing I do is awkwardly pull open my backpack and grab one of the Health Drinks inside. It's nasty warm, but my ruined wrist begins to twitch and wriggle, and that's all that matters.

There's no telling when he'll be back, so I start getting everything I can back on while my hand is in the process of healing. First things first, I arm myself by slipping on the shoulder holster and pistol. Then I slip my jacket back on, and though it's torn and shredded in places, it still feels like greeting an old friend that's been gone for far too long. Backpack over that, then I sort the most of my weapons back into their proper spots. The katana I leave off for the moment, grabbing it and my boots up before heading back out the door.

The coast is still clear. I panic for a moment when I realize I don't know which way David might have gone, so I don't know which way I should go, but before I become deadlocked I pick left randomly and start trying to doors along the right side of the hall. All the ones on the left seem like they probably go into more tiny rooms with no other exits, so I pass them by to save time.

I reach a small recess containing an elevator just as the creaky sound of rusty door hinges echoes through the area from behind me. I duck around the corner and wait until I hear the footfalls disappear into the room I formerly occupied. Not wanting to risk another incident like the one back at the station, I ignore the lift and try the door next to it, which opens with a soft whisper into the emergency stairwell.

I'm halfway down the first flight when I hear a muffled wail of anger and frustration come from above. I stop, heart thumping, as a series of stomps, shouts, and crashing noises come through the walls. I can only guess that it's David, and that he's not very happy that I escaped.

Good. Not wasting another second, I pound down the steps two at a time to make sure that escape is complete.

I pass a door that tells me I'm on the second floor now, but I don't stop. I need out of this place, away from my crazed stalker, and for that I need to get one more flight down.

I can't slam the door open when I reach it due to all the junk in my arms, but that's probably for the best. He might be able to hear the noise even at this distance and there might be something waiting for me on the other side, so instead I stuff the katana behind my boots, then cautiously reach out and slowly swing the door back.

The first floor is darker than the third was. My flashlight is still clipped to my lapel, so I switch it on as I step through the threshold. The alcove just beyond is much like the one above, but the hallway that stretches off to the left doesn't continue to the right, instead ending in a set of double doors. At least there don't seem to be any monsters in the vicinity, allowing me to exit the alcove and walk down the hall in relative peace.

There are fewer rooms here than along the previous corridor, but they do not hold my interest in the slightest. An exit. I need an exit. And according to the grimy sign I see hanging down from the ceiling, I'm headed in the right direction.

The hallway eventually ends in a three-way split. The door to my right is marked as a restroom. No help there. The one in front of me is a double set with a faded sign I can't quite make out. But on the left, the remains of a once-lit EXIT sign sit high on the wall.

The area beyond has a few more doors and another hallway off to my right. Just a few steps down I find another sign that points me to another corridor to my left. At this point I'm starting to feel all lefted and righted out, and I really really hope the way out is finally within grasp.

My luck hits a peak and then declines back to the depths almost within the same second as I take one more turn and find a reception area right across from the honest-to-goodness EXIT! Naturally, it's locked tight.

Succumbing to a moment of frustration, I pull my boots back and slam the toes into the heavy wood of the doors. It's not as satisfying as it would have been had I been actually wearing the boots on my feet, so I decide I'd better find someplace to hunker down and get my equipment better situated. If I'm really stuck in here with David or anything else Silent Hill decides to throw at me, I need to be as prepared as possible.

The reception area is open, as is a filing room beyond that. I shut the door behind me and turn the lock. Then, just to be absolutely sure, I put my shoulder against one of the smaller filing cabinets and push it over to sit in front of the door. If I had the ability to weld the whole thing shut, I'd be sorely tempted to do that as well.

With a thorough deliberation, I set about getting myself put back together. My boots slide back on easy and lace down tight. The scars on my legs gradually disappear under the ace bandages, my left wrist gets nice and armored with the brace, hair gets pulled back into Quinn's scrunchie, and the katana goes back on my belt. I check the ammo in all of my weapons, then sort them back into their proper places.

After stretching and shaking out all my limbs, I suddenly find that I almost feel whole again. Safe. Confident. Amazing what a serious amount of firepower can do for the old ego.

And yet I find myself dithering a bit about whether or not I should go back outside. I know what awaits me. Even if I don't run up against David again, I'll still have to wander around this godforsaken building, find clues or keys, fight monsters, jump over to the otherworld, and then snap back here again after facing off against some massively nasty monster that almost kills me. It's a vicious cycle that's already starting to pall.

But until I figure something else out, the only thing it seems I can do is continue following the path laid out before me. At the very least I suppose I can stay put and look for clues here for a minute. I reach out and pull open a drawer on the closest cabinet and start rifling through the folders within. I'm pretty sure I'm in some kind of hospital, but something about it seems a little off to me. I wouldn't say it seems familiar, exactly, but there is an element of-

Ah. Yes. I should have guessed right off the bat. The first file that I pick out and open is indeed a medical record. I can see the date of admission, lists of medications, and the like. It's when I get to a short description of the patient's afflictions that it all clicks together.

_Paranoid schizophrenia, persecution complex, obsessive compulsive disorder._

I'm in an insane asylum.

It makes sense. The small rooms. The cots instead of proper medical beds. If they'd just had padding on the walls, I would have been able to guess it the moment I woke up. So the crazy man brought me to a crazy house. Well that's just perfect.

I slap the file down and close the drawer. There's nothing more to learn here, so I push the cabinet back out of the way and open the door to step out into the receptionist area. Only the receptionist area isn't there anymore. I feel my jaw drop and my body freeze as I find myself staring out at the third floor hallway again as it stretches off into the distance.

Dammit! This is what I get for complaining. I bitch about the rules of the game, and what does Silent Hill do? It changes the rules. Of course.

Just to check, I shut the door and open it again, but the hallway is still there, unchanged. Even though I'm sure that going down this path will be irrevocable, I step out into the corridor and look around. The lights are brighter here still than they have been elsewhere, so I shut off my flash. The door to the room I was being held in sits open, so I peer cautiously inside.

It's empty, but there's definite signs of how unhappy David was with my disappearance. Everything is tossed about, turned upside down, or thrown in a pile. I can even see the slab of meat he tried to feed me sitting on the floor, a slightly discolored stain on the wall showing that he must have thrown it pretty hard. My skin crawls as my imagination runs wild considering where he might have found it.

To make myself feel a little better, I pop the katana out of its sheath and hold it loosely in my hand as I walk down the corridor. I'm still not sure I'll be able to use it properly, but just knowing I'm not defenseless is comforting.

From the looks and sounds of it, David either isn't anywhere near, or he's in hiding somewhere. I'm caught between wanting to relax and needing to keep on guard as a result. But then, I can't really relax around here anyway, can I? Stupid to even think I can. So I decide to keep on keepin' on as I have been. It's time to start checking doors again.

I turn around and see that there's one just right across the hall from my former prison. A small plaque next to the door reads "Examination Room 4". Good enough a place to start as any. The door is open, so I step inside.

This is supposed to be a room for examining patients? It might as well be a broom closet. At least it's bigger than the holding cells, but there's two gurneys, a bunch of medical supply cabinets, and lockers in the back. There's barely enough room for one person to move around in here, let alone two. But whatever. I start searching the area and find a Health Drink in one of the lockers. So coming in here wasn't a total waste.

Back in the hall, I check each door one by one as I pass by. Most of them are locked, but a few open to my touch. A couple don't have anything in them at all, but between the others I manage to score a clip for the tommy gun and another Health Drink.

Finally I reach the end of the hallway. It's a dead end except for the last resident room on the left, so after I check this one I figure I'll head down to the second floor and try my luck there. The door opens with a heavy creak, but I balk at going in when I see that the area beyond is pitch black.

The rest of the rooms had been dark as well, but at least the light from the hall had filtered in. Here, it's almost as if darkness itself was a physical thing inhabiting the room. It reminds me of the otherworld, and I feel a chill at the idea that stepping through might set off the siren.

Hopefully a beam of light won't have that effect on its own. I flip on my flash and angle it around, slicing through the darkness and illuminating the opposite wall.

"Holy shit."

Since I'm in a crazy house, I suppose it was inevitable that I would stumble across a truly crazy room. Everywhere I point the light, I see that the walls are covered with mad scribblings. After a few moments of study, it becomes apparent that these were written over a long period of time, and I can easily tell what order it was all written in. In some areas, the letters are neat, straight, and marked in pencil or pen.

But gradually they begin to shift, to mutate. The marks become ragged at the edges, applied with less care than before. They become wilder and wilder, and larger as well, as if the author of this insane manifesto wanted to make sure everything was still legible no matter how spasmodic their motions became. Pencil and pen run out of lead and ink, eventually to be replaced by that good old standby, blood.

But no matter what the medium or level of messy penmanship, it's always the same four words over and over again.

_I am not slow.  
I am not slow  
I AM NOT SLOW  
**I AM NOT SLOW**_

There is a figure curled up in the far corner. The light plays over the ashen skin, the sunken features. She - I think it's a she - is curled up, arms around her knees and looking as if she had simply sat there rocking back and forth until she just . . . stopped. She now sits silent and still in a dried pool of blood, undoubtedly from the wounds she visited upon herself to keep writing.

I back away from the room, horrified at the sight. I stumble over my own feet and put my hand out to steady myself against the wall, but to my surprise I find myself touching metal rather than wallpaper. Turning my head slowly, I see that where there was nothing but a dead end before, now there is a set of double doors.

The rules have changed again. As if in a dream, unable to control my own motions, I reach down, grip the push bar, and walk through the door.

I'm in a classroom.

More specifically, I'm in the very same classroom that I first met Mordecai in. And as if this wasn't disorienting enough, Mordecai is sitting there behind the desk, his fingers interlaced and a sympathetic smile on his face.

"Welcome back, Daria," he says softly. "I've been waiting for you."

It feels like a knife is sliding its way through my rapidly thumping heart, cold steel passing through the tough muscle. I'm a trapped animal, frozen and sweating. I stare at him, trying to mold what has just happened into a shape that I can deal with, that I can accept, but it just isn't happening.

My mouth stumbles over itself trying to spit something, anything out. "What, no, I-"

He waggles a finger at me, cutting me off before I can get out anything else but a few nonsense syllables.

"I really think we're past the stage where concealing things from one other is going to get us anywhere, Miss Morgendorffer," he says, then gestures at the seat across from him. "Please, have a seat."

"Wha-?" I huff, feeling my confusion rapidly give way to anger. "What? _What?_"

He holds his hands up. I'm not sure if it's an attempt to show he's unarmed, or to defend himself from the woman whose face is getting harder and frownier, and I'm not sure I really care. I was already sick of all this shit. Taking two steps backward into the school and suddenly learning one of the maniacs here knows my real name is not helping.

"Please, Miss Morgendorffer, I assure you that I mean you no harm," he's saying. "In fact, I'm here to help."

"_Help?_" I spit back at him. My hand tightens around the katana's hilt as I lift it and point it in his direction. "You've done nothing but confuse me this entire time! You've spun me around, talked in your gahtdamned riddles, done nothing at all but screw with my head, and _now_ you want to _help?_"

He frowns slightly. "It occurs to me that you have brandished a weapon at me all three times we have met thus far," he says, his voice oddly calm. "Does this mean that you are a violent person? That you wish to kill me, either in particular or in general? That you are used to wielding weapons at all, in fact? Or," he says as he spreads his hands wide, "are you perhaps merely the victim of your current circumstances?"

_Wait. Does he have a point or doesn't he?_

Not now, little voice.

"I am sorry, I really am," he continues. "I have been attempting to help you this entire time. There is only so much I can do, however, and I'm afraid that it takes time and experience on your part. I am just as much a victim of my situation as you are of yours. But the time has finally come to set aside the riddles. I cannot answer all of your questions still, for I am not myself conversant with all of the answers, but I will tell you all I can. I promise.

"Now please," he says, gesturing at the chair again, "have a seat."

I hate this. I hate this so much. But yes, little voice, I think he might just have a point. And even if he is just a crazy man with no answers at all, at least he's the one person here that hasn't tried to kill or kidnap me. Calming myself as best I can, I walk into the room and sit down.

The katana stays out and in hand, though I set it across my lap and go back to holding it loosely.

"Fine," I tell him. "Talk."

He does a little bow in his seat. "Thank you," he says. "One of the first things that might be on your mind at the moment is how I know that you are not, in fact, Melody Powers. Unfortunately, this is also one of the first things I cannot give an answer to. I simply know, because it seems to be my function to know. I study, and I read, and I learn, though it does not seem to make sense at the time."

"The police records," I say flatly.

"Yes, indeed," he confirms with a nod. "Among other things. It is much like reading in a dream. The individual letters and words may not necessarily make sense, but somehow they come together in my mind. It is all rather fascinating, to be honest. But it is through this that I have learned about you, just as I learned about the others before you."

"Others?" Then it hits me. "Oh, like David and Eric."

Mordecai's face darkens suddenly. "Precisely like David," he says sadly. "You have met him, then."

"Unfortunately." My lip curls.

"I am sorry for that. David Presser was the first I tried to help, just as he was the first I failed to help. I approached him, directly told him what I knew of the nature of this world. He didn't believe me. It was not until later that I learned the awful truth . . . that he _couldn't_ believe me. He simply wasn't capable of handling it yet, and in my fumbling attempts I irrevocably set him down the cyclic path he is on now.

"Unable to move forward, unable to move back. Trapped here, perhaps forever." He shakes his head. "And yet, in my naivete, I continued my attempts to help him. For nearly two weeks I trailed him and tried to establish con-"

"Wait, two weeks?" I interrupt. "He said he's only been here for three days! That liar!"

Mordecai's eyes widen. "Oh, no no no!" he says quickly. "Do not blame him for this. From his perspective, he may well believe he has only been here for three days. It is part of the cycle I unwittingly placed him in. Even should he learn anything about himself or this town, he eventually forgets it."

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. How long have I really been here in Silent Hill? If David has forgotten, could I . . . ?

"But it is through my experiences with him that I learned I must proceed carefully," Mordecai continues, breaking my train of thought. "I can help speed along the enlightenment of those who have been brought here, but I cannot directly interfere. You have learned from my words, this I know, though you may not be entirely aware of it or you may choose not to acknowledge it."

I have to grudgingly admit that he has taught me some things about the nature of my surroundings. I can't exactly say how helpful they have been, but even if they have, I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of letting him know. Besides, if he's really going to answer my questions now, there are more important things than validating his roundabout teaching method.

"You say you're here to help," I say. "Why? Who are you? _Really?_"

His expression becomes bittersweet. He pushes his long fingers through his white hair and sighs. "I am - or rather, was - a member of the Order," he tells me, "an underground religious organization. In my normal day job I was a librarian. But for the Order, I was a teacher. I inducted new members into our religion, taught them the tenets and the rites. Even as I taught, I learned more myself, and I began to grow dissatisfied with what I learned.

"Once upon a time, the beliefs of the Order were good. They were just. Our God was a beautiful being. She saved us and would one day return to us. But in her absence, her followers grew wicked. Twisted. They found this world, and it reflected their twisted hearts, and they thought it good. It came to me one day that I could not support this any longer, but I was powerless to do anything about it.

"And then, without warning, everything the Order had worked for was gone. We were exposed to the light of day and scattered to the winds. Those of us who were not rooted out went into hiding. I became merely a librarian, nothing more, and had no contact with my former brethren for several months.

"When the scorching heat of inquiry began to die down, I saw my chance at last. I approached others of the Order, I showed them the old texts, and I attempted to teach them the true ways of the beautiful Goddess, to turn them away from the twisted heart of this world. I was rebuffed at every attempt. And for every person who merely turned me away for fear of being exposed or simply because they wished to put the Order behind them entirely, I found myself faced with ever more that wished to silence me as a heretic and a troublemaker."

A tear rolls down Mordecai's cheek, but he ignores it, letting it drip from his jawline as he continues talking. "I was forced to flee here," he says. "An irony, perhaps. To escape my death, I come here where death is a constant companion, stalking the unwary in multitudinous forms. And I decided that even if it should be at the cost of my own life, I would help stay the hand of death from claiming others here. To help them return to their normal lives even if I could never do the same for myself."

A silence falls between us.

"I'm sorry," I finally say. It seems inadequate, but he smiles gratefully all the same.

"There is no need," he insists. "I have long been a shepherd of sorts. I simply tend a different flock now. So allow me to tend you further. You will, of course, wish another lesson on the nature of this place."

"'Wish' is a bit strong," I say, "but if it'll help . . . "

Mordecai holds his hands up and cups them together. "Imagine, if you will, that Silent Hill is a hollow sphere," he says. "Imagine further that you are standing on the inside of this sphere, and that the inner walls are made of millions of mirrors, all connected at their edges but still pointing in all different directions, making the inside of the sphere multifaceted."

"Uh . . . okay."

"From where you stand," he continues, "you can see yourself in each of those facets. Millions of Darias, no two of them exactly alike. And as you stand there, looking around at all these different Darias, one of them steps out of its mirror and attacks you."

Oh! "The monsters."

"No," he says, correcting me. "The other Daria is not the monster. The other Daria is merely a reflection of some aspect of yourself."

"So . . . the mirrors are the monsters?"

He shrugs. "That, perhaps, is closer to the truth. But the important thing to remember is what I said before, that this Silent Hill isn't exactly real. It has no understandable form of its own. It can only show you reflections of yourself, and it invariably chooses the worst and most painful aspects. Those reflections can still hurt you, but in the end they are unimportant. They are phantoms thrown in your way, to keep you from learning the true source of your suffering, to keep you trapped here forever. Only one thing brought you here, and that one thing alone is important."

"Quinn," I say sharply. "Where is she?"

He gets that evasive look again, and I feel my jaw tighten in response. He said he was going to give me the answers. No more bullshit. Evasiveness is a big no-no.

"Alas, that is another answer I cannot give," he says. "I realize you may not believe me, but there are three reasons why I cannot. Firstly, I do not know where she is. I cannot know. Learning about you is one of my functions. Learning about her, sadly, is not.

"Secondly, even if I were to learn the location of your lost sister, imparting it to you would be a pointless endeavor, for you already know where she is. You are not in fact seeking her. You are instead attempting to remember what you already know.

"And finally," he says, hanging his head low, "our time here has come to a close. No more questions. No more answers. You must proceed on your own once more, though with any luck I will see you one last time before your stay in Silent Hill is finished, for good or for ill."

As he has been making this last speech, the room has been getting gradually darker and darker. I want to jump up, to grab him by the shoulders, to demand more from him, but I am frozen in place by a fear that is encroaching my very being and freezing the blood in my veins. I hear his voice coming to me as if from a great distance.

"Farewell, Daria Morgendorffer. May the true Goddess watch over you in your time of need."

And then the air is filled with the wailing of a distant siren.


	11. Alternate Asylum

As the room around me explodes, I curse long and hard into the darkness. Not because I get rocked out of my chair, nearly eviscerating myself with my own katana as I bruise my ass hitting the ground, but because naturally the one conversation I've had since waking up in the fog world to make one iota of sense has been interrupted.

Seriously. Fuck you, Silent Hill.

The siren grows in volume as glass shatters and metal squeals all around me, but all I can think of is that I finally found an ally, someone who actually was trying to help me all this time, and I lost him. For just a few precious moments I could imagine that I wasn't alone in this. But is Mordecai going to be here when the wailing stops and the floor settles down?

No, of course not.

The most damnable part of it is that he was right. The whole time. Sure, he may have given me confusing answers. Sure he may have been roundabout, told me things from a certain point of view, and even blatantly lied to me on a couple of things, but he was still right.

This place isn't real, and it's been showing me things, parts of myself. The monsters are strange and twisted, but I can feel some sort of connection with them. They're almost familiar in a way, even if I can't say exactly how. The school, on the other hand, is far easier to place. Of course I would end up at a school considering I've just left one and I'm heading to another. The police station represents my inherent distrust of authority, of course, and the asylum . . . well, let's just say that other people aren't the only ones who think I might be a little crazy.

And Mordecai was definitely right about my suffering. I can feel it now. No longer nebulous, it's hard and it's sharp and it _hurts_. Casting back in my mind it seems like it started coming into focus right after I watched the DVD of Quinn. Ever since then it's been building up, I just haven't really had the time to stop and quantify it yet. But even though I know it's there without a doubt, I still can't quite understand where it's coming from. It's still sourceless, directionless, sitting in my chest and waiting for me to get a fucking clue already.

The shaking finally stops, and I pull myself up to my knees. My katana scrapes noisily across the metal floor, but the sound doesn't end when I stop moving the weapon.

Did I think before that I was going to be alone on the other side of the veil?

I was wrong.

I can hear them. I can hear the _tap tap scrape_ of a runner nearby. I hear the scrabbling claw clicks of demon squirrels in the distance. The snapping metal beaks of harpies, the whispering metal fingers of razors. There's even the steady _thud, thud, thud_ of a bruiser echoing off the walls.

With trembling fingers, I reach up and snap off my flashlight. The noises seem to be coming mostly from my left, so I slowly begin to crawl to the right. After only a few feet, my forearm is already starting to ache from holding the katana blade up from the ground, but I don't dare set it down. My mind is screaming at me just to get up and run. I ignore it and keep going until I finally butt up against a wall.

_tap tap scrape tap tap scrape_

Oh shit shit shit. Please just be my imagination. Please don't say the runner followed me. I don't want to die in the dark. Please, please.

Strangely, the smacking mumbling noise of the thing's vertical mouth sounds even more disgusting when I can't actually see the moist lips writhing around. It's like it's trying to sense my presence by tasting the air for the slightest trace, but this turns out to not be the case at all.

The bottom drops out of my stomach when I see a thin, ragged line of light appear barely a yard from my position. I look up at the source, and as I watch in stunned horror, the runner's mouth opens up, leaving trails of gooey saliva across the car headlight mounted there. It swings its head back and forth until finally the beam is pointed directly at me, and I realize that the orifice is less a mouth and more an eye, a horrid eye that is pointing me out to every creature occupying the room.

As noisy as the room had been before, it was nothing compared to this. My eardrums feel like they are going to pop as a thousand screams of anger, hatred, and pure, dark evil fills the air, all of them directed at me. Red eyes turn my way and begin to lurch back and forth as the monsters they are attached to claw, scrabble, and tap tap scrape my way, intent on nothing else but burying me under their bulk and tearing me to pieces.

I crouch frozen for almost a second too long. As I launch myself to the right and stagger to my feet, I can hear the runner's blade clang noisily against the metal wall. Throwing caution completely to the wind, I fall into an all-out run, one hand against the wall to keep myself going in a straight line. It doesn't matter how much noise I make now. There's no way they can hear me over their own cacophony. But I have to get away from that damn light!

Naturally it can't be that easy, and just a short way ahead of me I can see the squiggling line of another runner's eye opening to fix directly on me. Without stopping to even think about what I'm doing, I move away from the wall, grasp the katana firmly in both hands, and swing the blade in a wide arc. The thin neck neatly bisects, sending the runner's head tumbling end over end. It hits the ground and bounces once, shattering the headlight and restoring the darkness around me.

I have to get out of here. More dots of yellow-white light are starting to appear, and the stampede is ongoing behind me as the monsters search tirelessly for me. I have to-

"_UNF!_"

Shit! Fuck!

I think I might have broken my nose. Or my glasses. Or both. The other wall came out of nowhere. Stupid of me to keep running without checking the area in front of me, but what am I supposed to do under the circumstances?

Whatever, self-recriminations can wait until later. I put my free hand out and start feeling along the wall, trying to get a sense of how it fits in relation with the wall I left just a few moments ago. I stop short when I find that the wall isn't uniform, but it doesn't feel like the normal plating that I'm used to. The cleft and grooves feel familiar somehow. If I only had a little time, I could figure it out.

One tap tap scrape later and I'm lit up from behind, both hurting and helping my cause immeasurably. My hand is resting on a door frame, but quickly moves to the doorknob in frantic terror as the screams and bellows of Silent Hill's denizens rise up behind me like a tidal wave once again.

The door stubbornly refuses to open. Ha. Ha ha. _Ha ha hahahahahahahaha!_

"Open open open open OPEN OPEN OPEN!" I scream, suppressing the mad laughter welling in my throat. Sweat flies from my face and trickles down my back as I slam my shoulder into the door, forcing it to move bit by creaking bit while rust flies up into the air around me.

Just as I can feel the runner's blade swinging behind me, just as I can smell the carrion breath of the harpies, the door swings wide and I tumble through, unprepared. My shoulder brakes hard against a railing just a few feet away, which I clamp onto as I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself for the onslaught to come.

An enormous amount of nothing starts to happen. It takes me a few moments to realize that I can't even hear the disgusting sounds of my pursuers anymore. I slowly open one eye, flip on my flashlight, and look around to find that I am completely alone and that the door I just passed through has - like so much else lately - mysteriously ceased to exist.

In its place is a section of wall covered in greyish padding, like that found in an insane asylum. Or my old bedroom. Except in this case, it looks like the padding has been shredded and then abandoned to the elements. I see patches of green mold - or, at least, what I hope is merely mold - covering large swaths of what padding is still left intact. Swinging the beam of my flashlight around, I find that I am standing on a catwalk running along the wall. The walk is made up of interlocking metal grates and lined by a railing that looks as if it is made of window bars.

I lean slightly over the side to see nothing but more catwalks above, below, and stretching off into the distance. It's like some quasi-neo-gothic version of Escher's _Labyrinth_. Or maybe _Donkey Kong_. Metal ladders interconnect the walks, but thankfully I can see no monsters wandering around or giant apes trying to throw barrels at me.

Except for the wall sitting next to me, I have no real point of reference to work from. I can't just stay here, however. That won't get me anywhere. I need to pick a direction. And after several seconds of careful deliberation . . . I choose _down_.

The catwalk clanks against itself as I clomp across it. As I walk, I carefully sheathe my katana. With things changing so often and without warning, it seems a little foolish to think I can put away any of my weapons even with a current total absence of monsters, but I'm going to need both hands free to use the ladders anyway. And with things changing so fast there's little guarantee that I'd be able to use it in time even if I had it out and in hand.

Even more than before, I seem to be at the mercy of my environment. Not that it actually has any.

The ruined padding on the wall sits on my left as I look for the first available way down. If I'd had any lingering doubts that the "hospital" I had been dragged to was actually an insane asylum, they're completely gone now. Wafting over to me from the exposed cushioning, I can smell vague hints of the rot and decay, a combination of sweat, mold, blood, urine, and several other, much less pleasant substances.

An image comes unbidden to my mind, a snapshot of my own room degraded into a nightmare like this. The middle of my bed sunk in, the hole black and wet. Green rot extending from the empty closet. The windows cracked and broken, the bars made intact but rusted. And me, sitting in the center, a filthy straitjacket wrapped around my emaciated frame.

I shake my head to clear it. This place might finally be getting to me. Maybe it's these specific surroundings. I don't want them to remind me of home. My room was somewhere I could hide from the world, where I could be safe. This is a perversion of that. And perhaps a reminder that sometimes, just sometimes . . . I would stay in my room to protect the rest of the world from me.

Hey look, a ladder. Let's see where it goes.

I check the frame to make sure everything's securely attached before I entrust my life to it. I haven't made it this far just to get flung out into space because Silent Hill's safety inspector didn't properly check all the screws. Once I'm reasonably sure that my weight will be bearable, I spin around and set my feet to the rungs. The trip down is easy, and I find myself on yet another catwalk, similar to the first except for its perpendicular positioning and the lack of a wall on one side.

For what feels like an hour, perhaps two, I descend through the maze catwalk by catwalk, ladder by ladder. No strange twists reveal themselves, no slavering beasts appear, and nothing at all seems to change as my journey continues. Though I expected them to, my muscles suffer no fatigue from all the exercise. It is almost as if I'm locked in a sort of cyclical stasis, forever moving across the same few walks over and over again, time-jumping back to the beginning each time with complete memory of my previous trips. It would almost be annoying if it weren't for my complete and total apathy toward the situation.

A horrid realization steals over me as I set foot on another set of grates. This is my life now. This. An endless, mindless repetition simply because I don't know what else to do. And just like my current situation, I'm not exactly sure how long the overall situation has been this way.

Since the accident? Yes no maybe. Longer?

. . . perhaps.

By the time my family moved to Lawndale, I was pretty set in my ways. I hated idiots, I liked books, and honestly all that hasn't changed much. But there were still things that started popping up to challenge the rigid rulesets that I had become all too comfortable with. I had thought I would never have any friends, let alone a significant other of any kind. I had thought that there were absolute measures of right and wrong and that - in my arrogance - I was the sole arbiter of what those measures were. I had thought my parents were negligent and oblivious while my sister would never be anything more than a bratty debutante.

But after I learned all of these were flawed premises at best and outright fallacies at worst, I began to dig myself into a new hole, setting these new ideals as the status quo. My perceptions might have changed, but my fundamental nature remained the same. Change is bad. Same is good. Looking back over my daily ritual for the past several months, I can see no variations. Always the same old, same old.

This raises a big, burning question, however. If I'm such a slut for being in a rut, why would I be so eager to leave all of that for a new city, a new school, and an uncertain future? v _Change._

Something changed in Lawndale. Something big. I can't quite wrap my head around it, but even with my wake-coffee-paper-computer-lunch-TV-dinner-read-bed routine, I simply didn't have the stability I should have had anymore. The huge black hole in the center of my being, sucking everything into it, the thing whose edges are only just starting to become clear to me. The accident but not the accident.

And whatever it was, it was enough to get even sedentary ol' me to pick herself up and get the hell outta Dodge. It made me leave my friends, my family, my home, and everything I had become familiar with.

I don't know about you, little voice, but that sure as hell scares the shit out of _me_.

Something's different. I look around and see that the darkness around me has a slightly different flavor to it than before. Lighter, oranger. I orient myself on the source of this change and find that it's coming from the other end of the walk I'm currently on. Pulling out my pistol and giving the clip a quick check, I proceed forward cautiously and hope I'm ready for yet another surprise.

The first surprise is a candle sitting on a candlestick welded to the railing on my right. A few yards past it, I can see another situated on the left railing. These are the source of the glow, and they gradually become closer together as I was between them. Since it's no longer needed at the moment, I switch off my flashlight and continue on until I find myself standing before another rotted padded wall on the opposite side of the room from where I began. The catwalk I'm on continues on into this wall through a tunnel lit by more candles hung like torches in a medieval castle.

I walk into the mouth of the padded cave without hesitation. It's cramped and claustrophobic compared to the openness of the catwalks outside, but still wide enough for three or four people to walk through abreast. And strangely enough, even with everything being relatively more cozy here, I'm no longer reminded of my old room. There's a different quality to the atmosphere here, something subtle enough that I can't put my finger on it.

The only way I can think to put it is that this is a cell, but it's not _my _ cell.

Padded walls and ceiling over metal grated floor stretches on for several minutes before the first new feature appears. I come across a small alcove that appears to have been forcibly dug out of the wall, revealing that behind the padding is solid rock. A strange altar sits in this alcove, carved directly out of the rock itself and festooned with two candles on either edge. I recognize the candelabras as the ones that were on the altar in the curio shop back in the fog world, and it's a bit of a shock to see them here.

There are no helpful items or keys sitting on this altar, however. The only other feature besides the candles is a set of two indentations in the stone, two half circles with their flat faces turned toward each other. It looks like something is supposed to be placed in them, either the bases of two statuettes or perhaps two emblems. Some kind of ridiculous items, anyway. I search the immediate area for a few minutes, but I don't find anything of the kind sitting around. I know I don't have anything on me that would fit either, and there doesn't seem to be any doors or anything nearby to open with a puzzle, so I simply shrug my shoulders and decide to move on.

More tunnel passes by. I can feel sweat bead on the back of my neck and start to slide down the collar of my jacket as the air around me begins to press down even more oppressively than usual for the otherworld. I'm getting the feeling that not only is this not my cell, it's someplace I'm not supposed to be at all. But I continue pushing forward, one step at a time. I'm nearing my goal, I can sense it, and I'm not going to let any obstacle stand in my way. Whatever it is I'm walking into, I'm-

It's David.

I stop immediately, hoping against hope that he doesn't hear the sudden squelch that the toe of my forward boot makes on the floor. The corridor opens out into a room around twenty yards ahead, and he is crouched down in the middle of the floor, his back turned to me. To either side of him, I can see spindly limbs sprawled out, one of them capped by an ivory white peg, the other consisting almost entirely of a thin metal blade. A pool of black ichor has spread around his feet from the runner's corpse, and it looks like he's holding something, his head bobbing up and down jerkily.

My gut begins to churn when I realize exactly what he's doing. When I think back to the slab of meat he offered me and understand with terribly clarity exactly where he'd gotten it. When I replay the memory of the first time I saw him, brutally tenderizing his next meal at the apartments.

I frantically begin to rate my chances of quietly slipping back to the labyrinth when his head jerks up and around. It's almost as if he can sense my presence, and indeed he turns around, oh God, he turns around and looks directly back at me. A wide grin spreads across his face as he reaches up to wipe away the juices running down his chin. His teeth are stained brown from his grisly supper, his eyes wild with no human emotion I can recognize.

"Melody!" he calls out to me, throwing his arms wide. In one hand he holds a runner bone, a bit of flesh still clinging to one end and dripping blood on the concrete floor. His tone is one of seeing a past acquaintance for the first time in years at a picnic social. "'Bout time you showed up!"

Run. I can still run. I can turn around and leave him behind. I'm no Jane, but I'm no slouch. Surely I can get away.

I can't get away. There is no other way. The maze doesn't lead anywhere but here. Silent Hill isn't going to let me off the hook that easily. If I go back, I'll just find a dead end, or the maze will be filled with monsters, or I'll just end up right back here again just as if I were running along a madman's Moebius strip.

_You're finally starting to learn._

"Well don't just stand there, come on in!" David calls out, the epitome of neighborly manners. "Plenty to eat, plenty of room! And I think we need to continue our little conversation from earlier, now don't we?"

Words balk in my throat. The only sound I can make is a small wheezing as air tries to force itself through the passage. My teeth clench against each other, and I force myself to start putting one foot in front of the other again. This is my only path, so I have to walk it. I keep my pistol out and pointed directly at David's chest, however. I'm limited in my options, not parboiled stupid.

Of course, there still runs that nagging question in the back of my head about whether or not I could actually shoot him if I had to. Unfortunately, this time I might have to find out.

He ignores the gun completely as I step through the threshold. Once inside, I can see that though the floor is concrete, the walls continue their rotted, padded motif. Pipes have been added to the arrangement, however, sprouting out here and there at random and occasionally spitting out jets of steam that make the already oppressive atmosphere even worse. The decently large area is lit by more candles lining the walls, with some of them sitting in sconces bolted to the pipes that run from ceiling to floor like small metal pillars. If I had to sum up the whole thing in three words, they would be "insane factory jungle".

On the far side of the room, I see the corridor continues for just a short way before ending at a ladder that ascends to . . . somewhere. Wherever I need to be. Away from here. That's all that matters.

David gnaws a small hunk of meat off the bone in his hand and chews it thoughtfully for a second. "You," he says, waggling his finger at me, "led me on one merry little chase earlier, Mel. You're a clever little thing, that's for damn sure. I don't think I've ever met one as clever as you."

My propensity for backtalk finally loosens my tongue. "Being chased by a raving psychopath is pretty good incentive for quick getaway," I tell him with a snarl. My voice only cracks a little with fear.

"Oh!" he cries, putting his free hand over his heart. "Oh, dear! Is _that_ what you think I am? Some kind of lunatic?" His features darken, and for a second I see the quiet, calm David that I saw back in the hospital. I see that icy core before it's replaced by anger, affront. "I help you out, I _keep_ trying to help you out, no matter how bad you treat me, and you gotta go and call me a psychopath! Dammit, Mel!"

He tosses the bone away and throws his arms up in the air. "Look around you! Look at where we are! Look at what's going on! I don't know if you've noticed, but this is some pretty serious shit!" he says. "_I'm_ not crazy! The _world_ has gone crazy! And I'm just trying to make some sort of sense out of it again! And what are _you_ doing? Running around with a bunch of damn guns strapped to every part of you! Carrying a sword! Your clothes all torn to shreds! Who's the fucking nut here, Melody? 'Cause it sure ain't looking like it's me!"

I stare at him, jaw literally hanging open. I shouldn't have expected any different, but he apparently doesn't see anything wrong with the disgusting glop clinging to his face and hands from the monster he was eating. His clothes aren't torn up, true, but there is a filthy handprint from where he put his hand on his chest earlier, and from the looks of his shoes and pants cuffs, whatever he's been walking through lately wasn't exactly clean.

But I don't mention any of this, because it's obvious he won't listen. He's beyond any sort of reason. So what do I do?

"But look, sorry, I'm not wanting to attack you here or anything," he says, his mercurial mood switching to calm and conversational again. "I'm just pointing out what's in front of me. But hey, I'm willing to forgive and forget if you are. Just put down the gun, come over here, and let's talk about putting the world right again, okay?"

"You really don't know where we are?" I ask.

His eyes turn dangerous. His stance becomes tense. "What do you mean?" he asks flatly.

Apparently what I'm going to do is poke the bear. Good job, Daria.

"I mean," I tell him, soldiering forward, "that this isn't the real world. The real world is going on just fine without us, and this one doesn't need or want 'saving'. In fact, I'm pretty sure it reacts pretty violently to people trying to do so. What we've got to do, David, if there even _is_ a 'we' here, is get out of this place as quickly as possible. Mordecai-"

"_MORDECAI?_" he suddenly explodes, and it occurs to me belatedly just how much of a mistake it was to bring that name into the discussion. "_Mordecai?_" he repeats, spitting it through his teeth. "That _asshole?_ Don't tell me you've been talking to _him!_"

Well, shit. "Yes, I have," I say simply. "He's told me a little bit about this place, and-"

"Oh, sure, of course he has," David scoffs. "Yeah, he came up to me with his bullshit a while back, too. Tried to tell me a bunch of garbage about his religion or something. Buncha bullshit. He couldn't even remember if his god was a he or a she half the time! Mordecai doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. Some strange shit has gone down, but this is still planet Earth, dammit, and we've gotta do something about it.

"But I can't do it alone! I need your help, Mel!" He reaches out to me beseechingly, his eyes pleading for me to understand. "We can figure out what happened here and put it right. We can rebuild the world, shape everything the way it ought to be. _We_ can be the saviors, Melody! _We_ can be the _gods_, and our children will be pharaohs! An entire world just for us!"

"No."

He blinks rapidly, his hands still outstretched. "What?"

"I said _no_, David." I somehow manage to infuse my voice with some authority that I don't really feel. I can't stand here and listen to him babble. I need to go, I need to find Quinn. "I need you to step aside and let me pass."

"Let you . . . let you . . . " he repeats almost as if he's tasting the words, as if they're completely unfamiliar to him. His face goes slack and his arms drop back to his sides. He looks at a point somewhere beyond me, his eyes unfocused. "You're just like the others," he says distantly. "I thought you might be different. But it's always the same. This is why I always try to be that guy at first. Everybody likes that guy. But when I talk to you like you're a real human being, this is what happens. Every time. You're one of them."

He looks at the gun as if he's seeing it for the first time. "So, are you gonna shoot me?" he asks. "Is that what this is?"

"I don't want to-" I start, but my chest is starting to tighten again.

That cold, calculating look is stealing over him once more, and this time it looks like it's here to stay. His eyes lock onto me with hatred, but it's not a burning, consuming hate like before. It's something reptilian and cold. It's the edge of a razor blade, pointed directly at me.

"And you won't," he says with absolute certainty. "You didn't shoot me before. You won't now. You don't have it in you. I've been shot at before. You don't even have half of what they had. You don't have the guts. You're not like me. You're not a killer."

He takes a step forward, and it requires all of my self-control not to piss my jeans. My hands feel like all of the nerves have been stripped out of them. Even though I can clearly see everything below my wrists shaking like crazy, I simply can't feel it. My fingers are numb blocks of wood on the ends of my arms. He takes another step. And another. Just a few more and he'll be within range to simply snatch my weapon away from me. Turn it against me. Or, perhaps worse, simply fling it in the corner and do something far, far worse.

I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't.

I-

_Calm._

-reach down inside myself and grasp a solid core of strength I didn't even know was there. I close my eyes, take in a deep breath, and then open them again.

"You're right," I say, stopping David in his tracks. "I'm not a killer. But I can't have you standing in my way."

"Wha-?" he manages just before I pull my aim down, squeeze the trigger twice, and plant two bullets directly in his upper leg.

He collapses with a scream of surprise and pain, clutching his leg in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood pouring freely from the wounds. He writhes on the floor, grunting and seething through his clenched teeth as I carefully step around him, my gun still aimed at him the entire time just in case. Once I'm on the other side, I head straight for the opposite corridor and the ladder it contains. I get one hand on the first rung when David's strained voice belts out my fake name.

"_Melody!_" he screams pitifully. "You can't do this to me! You can't just leave me here! Please, Melody, you have to . . . you have to take me with you! _Please!_ There's . . . there's these things down here! They look like the women I . . . they look . . . but they're these _things_, wrapped up in leather, and they'll find me! I can't walk, Melody! I can't get away! Please, Melody! Please please please, you have to help me! _Help meeee!_"

For a moment I hesitate. For just a moment I consider going back, helping him bind his wounds, maybe even binding his hands behind him. Then taking him somewhere relatively safe. Maybe even trying to take him with me on my own path.

But then I put my hands and feet to the ladder and start hoisting myself up. I helped Eric how I could. I would have helped David, but it's pretty clear that Mordecai was right. At this point, he's beyond help. Any help I would be able to give, at any rate. Here in Silent Hill, we all have our own monsters. In the end, I think we have to deal with them on our own. David made his own hell. I have to concentrate on fixing mine.

I keep climbing until I can't hear him anymore.

* * *

I'm not a killer.

As a great wise man once said, this means something. This is _important_. But I can't for the life of me understand why yet.

I shot a man. I have to stop for a second and cling desperately to the rungs sticking out of the rotted padding so I can dry heave a few times at the memory of his jeans leg exploding in a small fountain of blood out the back, a hole drilled through flesh underneath denim slowly turning dark like an unfolding flower. I shot him twice, hurt him, caused him grievous physical injury. I've never done that before, to my recollection. I've kicked people before. Slapped a couple. Never anything like this.

But I didn't kill him.

I could have. I could have put the bullets in his chest, in his head. At that distance I couldn't have missed, even with my hands shaking like dry leaves in the wind. I could have collapsed a lung, busted his guts, popped his head like an overripe melon. There are a few more bullets left in the clip. I could have emptied them into him, one at a time. Reloaded. Thrown even more hot lead into his already ravaged body.

But I stopped at merely hobbling him.

My rage could have been satisfied. The terrible rage I felt back in the police station, threatening to consume me, rage at myself directed outward and poured into him like lava spewing out of a volcano and coming to a hissing, steaming rest in the nearby ocean. Where he obviously wanted to satisfy himself in me sexually, I would have satisfied myself in him with hate, anger, spite. Releasing even a fraction of the fear-driven self-loathing would have been cathartic, cleansing.

But I resisted satisfying that urge.

I am _not_ a killer.

It's a big piece of the puzzle. Possibly the biggest. But I still don't have all the other pieces. The edges of the big picture are incomplete, hazy at best. I have the accident, I have Quinn, I have my expedious retreat from Lawndale, I have the fact that I'm not a killer . . . but what does all of that add up to? I'm not just missing pieces here, I'm missing the box the puzzle comes in as well, leaving me with no clue as to what pattern I'm supposed to arrange them in. And what if I've been given pieces but didn't recognize them as being part of the game?

"The Game," she says. Analogies to jigsaw puzzles. Like this is all supposed to be some big fun activity, a sport for all ages. Jesus. I resume my climb, almost imagining that I can actually feel the downward drag of all the equipment I'm hauling for the first time. I already feel like I've been in this vertical tunnel for ages now, no company but my own thoughts. Even little voice seems to have abandoned me for the moment.

With my attention turned outward again, however, I begin to notice small changes in my surroundings. The moldy padding and cracked concrete slowly give way to the depressing familiarity of rusted metal and exposed machinery. Slowly I drift up out of what I assume was David's otherworld and back into the confines of my own. Welcome back to your personal hell, Daria Morgendorffer. We haven't missed you.

The change of scenery is accompanied by a disappearance of the candles jammed into the walls. Darkness presses back around me, forcing me to stop and turn my flashlight back on just to make sure I'm not sticking my foot on a broken run or my hand on something even less pleasant.

Just as I'm starting to wonder to myself whether or not I should start pointlessly wondering in circles about my situation some more, I reach up to grab at nothing and feel the quality of the air around me change. Pointing my light upward reveals a ceiling a few yards above me, and in between there seems that my current confined space opens out into a larger area.

The short version is that I've found a new room.

After crawling out of the hole in this new room's floor, I turn to flop painfully over on my backpack and all of its contents. I don't really care at the moment what's digging into my back or how much permanent nerve damage it may be causing. I don't give a shit if a thousand mecha-harpies are waiting for me in the surrounding darkness. I'm tired. Minor discomfort and savage monstrosities can just piss off for a minute.

Once I feel up to it, I pick myself back up and take a look at my, frankly, rather boring surroundings. Besides the hole in the floor and the door in one wall, it's more of the same bland metal plating and chain link grating. To think I once thought of this decor as creepy. Hell, at this point I'm considering doing up my new apartment like this once I'm finally in Boston. It's kind of homey.

Maybe that's just the ongoing and ever-growing insanity talking.

Maybe I should just concentrate on getting through the door. Which I decide really is for the best. Fortunately the knob twists easily and I step through into the secret room off the holding cells in the police station.

Okaaaaaay.

The room is not how I left it at all. Instead, it's more or less how I found it in the first place. The small table behind the chair has a variety of useful items sitting atop it. The TV and DVD player are both sitting on their little cart, completely intact. The bare bulb shines firmly from its place hanging from the ceiling. If it weren't for the fact that I could turn around and see for certain that the holding cells are not behind me, I would think that I was somehow transported back in time.

But this . . . honestly, this works. It's like another little piece falling into place, another bread crumb along the trail that I've been following ever since I got here. I step into the room and run my fingers along the tops of the items on the table, taking quick stock before I settle down in the chair and swing my backpack around to my front.

The DVD player is just as musty and web-ridden as before, but it also just as easily takes the DVD that I've fished out of my pack. Back in the original secret room, I had decided to keep the disk with me on what had seemed like a whim, but now I know it was for this very moment. And it turns out that I've gotten so used to things not making sense around here that the fact that they _are_ following some kind of plan is disturbing the shit out of me.

The television screen lights up to show the simple menu of PLAY and CHAPTERS. Last time PLAY didn't work, but I'm feeling lucky this time. For a certain value of "lucky". I press the enter button on the remote and watch as the screen jumps, fades out, and then fades in to an image of me on my bed, reading.

Pinpricks and cold shivers arc across my skin. Before the first scene I had been treated to had been one of me getting into the SUV out in front of the house. It would have been frightening enough but at least reasonable to think that someone might have been hiding in the bushes somewhere with a camera, filming me where I couldn't see them. But this . . . there's just no way. Not unless Claude Rains had been crouching down in the middle of my room with an invisible camcorder placed against his unseen eye.

Several seconds worth of nothing notable pass by. The me on the screen turns a page and I have to wonder if this is going to be my torment for whatever wrong I might have committed, to watch every single boring second of my life for an eternity.

I'm saved from this ignominious fate by Quinn's voice.

"Daaaaah-riaaaaa!"

The view swings over to the bedroom door where Quinn is leaning in, long red hair swinging freely as her head bobs around with that nervous bird energy she never seems to lack in large quantities. I can imagine the look on my own face at this point, a sour frown at the intrusion tempered by a desire to get along with my sister in at least some small capacity.

"Can I get a ride to the mall before it closes?" she asks.

"Why don't you drive yourself?" I ask from off-camera. "Surely it would be preferable to you driving me crazy while I chauffeured you at twenty under the speed limit."

She crosses her arms and does her best huff. "I _sooooo_ would, but I'm still grounded for a couple of days, remember? Because of the thing? With the thing?"

"Right," I say with sigh of vague remembrance. "The Thingpocalypse. Fine. But you owe me."

"_Big_ time!" she tells me with her exuberant assurance, a promise generally worth however long she bothers to remember having made. NASA scientists have estimated the longest shelf life of those memories being anywhere from ten to fifteen seconds.

Still, I had felt at the time that getting out of the house might actually do me some good. Not to mention getting behind the wheel again. I was still a bit shaky after the accident while heading up to the Cove to see Tom. Not the greatest driver in the first place, I had become even more reticent and painfully hyperaware of even the slightest dangers around me. Every stray piece of road trash was a flat waiting to happen, every pedestrian no matter how close or far the potential victim of vehicular manslaughter. I-

. . . I remember.

Oh God. Oh shit. I remember. And yet even as the memories begin to flood back into me like an acidic wash, somehow burning and freezing me at the same time, I don't stop the movie. I watch in horrid fascination as the events unfold, unable to reach out and silence the set, unable to quiet the player. I have to see. I have to hear.

I have to keep remembering.

This was nearly two months after the ill-fated trip to the Cove. I had just graduated and was planning on sitting back and resting on my laurels for a little while before I started the initial preparations for my move to Boston. Since the graduation took place in early April, I felt I could take that luxury, and I have to admit that the fact that I got to laze around while Quinn still had another month and a half of school to go before summer was sort of a mean-spirited bonus.

To be fair, she got her revenge. Asking me for rides all the time while she was grounded from using the car was part of it. I couldn't refuse, after all, since unless I wanted to actually get my butt in gear and start getting ready to go, I didn't have anything more important to do. My sister could be a tricky little thing when she put her mind to it.

The view swings back around and I'm shown grudgingly getting up from the bed and schlepping over to sit down and put on my boots. Quinn had disappeared by this time, undoubtedly to make whatever last second preparations she felt necessary before being seen in public. After my own tortuously complicated lace-tying ritual, I clumped out of the room and down the steps to wander through the living room and into the kitchen to grab the keys to the SUV.

My hand and Mom's came up at the same time, unintentionally blocking each other from their target. The same target, as it turns out.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Daria," Mom said as she shifted the cellphone in the crook of her shoulder to a more comfortable position. "I didn't see you there! Are you going out tonight?"

"The Princess of Pedestria requested my limo services for the evening," I explained. "But hey, if you need the keys more than I do . . . "

The hopeful tone in my voice must have gotten drowned out by whoever was on the other end of the phone call, because Mom just shook her head with a smile and a dismissive wave of her hand. "Oh, no, Daria, it's quite all right! Your father and I were just going down to the store to pick up a few things. You take the SUV and we'll take the car. Just remember to lock up if you leave after we do!"

"Oh," I said simply, disappointed. "Swell." My plan of staying home had been obliterated with one fell swoop of politeness. I always knew that crap was a bad idea.

Moments later, Quinn and Dad appeared at the threshold at almost the exact same time, almost as if they'd planned it. "We ready to go, honey?" Dad asked as Quinn whined, "Daaaaah-ria, we're going to miss the Eight O'Clock Madness Sale!"

"All set, Jakey," said Mom as she picked the car's keys from the pegboard and started to head out.

It was then that I made the decision and asked the question that ruined everything forever.

"Hey . . . why don't we all go together?"

I don't know what I was thinking. Which is a lie. I know exactly what I was thinking. There I was, Daria, that loner chick, the outsider even amongst members of her own family. The girl all grown up and getting ready to head out into the big wide world on her own. But for once, despite my earlier attitude, I didn't want to be on my own. In this last little while before I left everything behind . . . I wanted us to be a family, full and whole and together and happy.

Was that so wrong? Was that such a terrible thing to hope for that I deserved what happened next? That any of us deserved it?

In the year previous, I had been making some connection with Dad. Mom and I actually talked about important things from time to time. Even Quinn and I had been getting along more often than not, our insults and barbs lacking any real bite and feeling more like actual friendly interplay. Surely everything that had been happening had been leading up to this point, allowing us to part ways afterward on good terms.

I want to claw at the screen again, not in a vain attempt to get inside and save Quinn from the fate I know awaits her, but in an effort to stop time itself, to bring the entire proceeding to a halt, to live in that single moment where everything looked bright and held such beautiful promise. But I sit and force myself to watch even as tears build up and begin to blur the picture before me.

Mom, Dad, and Quinn all exchanged glances and looked at me just like I would look at myself from their perspective. "That's very sweet of you, honey," Mom said uncertainly, "but are you sure?"

"Yah, sure, why not," I replied, trying to keep up my best disaffected tone. "The store is on the way to the mall. We can save some gas. And, y'know. Because of the environment or something." Then, the clincher on the deal. I reached up and grabbed the SUV keyring. "I'll drive."

"Well I think that sounds _great_, Daria!" Dad cheered suddenly. "A big family outing! Man! It's been forever since we had one of those!"

Mom looked thoughtful for a moment, almost certainly considering the fact that I volunteered to drive and what it meant. She had been on me to get back in the saddle again regarding driving, and I was sure she saw my offer as a good step forward. "That _does_ sound rather nice," she finally conceded. "Quinn?"

"Whatever gets me to Cashman's the fastest!" my sister predictably stated.

And with that we were out the door. At this point the movie caught up with where it had started the last time I'd tried to watch it, with the tight shot behind my back as I opened the SUV door and got inside. This time in continued on to show Quinn get in the passenger seat while our parents loaded up in the back. Dad buckled in right behind me while Mom settled down behind Quinn, smiling warmly at me from across the cab.

I returned the smile and found myself surprised at how genuine it felt.

The vehicle started effortlessly. Seat belts were all in place, lights were on, brake depressed, and gear put in reverse. I backed us out of the driveway slowly but with something akin to confidence. I pulled us to a gentle stop, switched to drive, and started down the road in more or less a straight line.

Light conversation filled the air as I threaded my way through the sleepy suburb of Lawndale. It was nice, actually, just hearing everyone actually talk about their day instead of the usual forced dinner conversation we usually had. Quinn wasn't trying to dominate the topic, Mom wasn't having to force words and sentences out of the rest of us, and Dad didn't have a newspaper to hide behind. It was so different from the norm that I have to wonder if maybe my memories of the event are rose-colored, shifted from the reality by a wish that things had actually been that way. It seems almost intolerably cruel that things might have actually gone this way before it all came to an end.

I had started off driving slowly, cautiously. My part in the conversation had been small as I'd been giving most of my attention to the road ahead and what little traffic was passing around us. But as things went along I felt myself start to loosen up. I was talking and laughing with everyone else, which led to a feeling of confidence and ease that allowed me to push down a little harder on the accelerator.

The gradual increase led to the SUV moving along at something approximating the legal speed limit as posted along the side of the road on signs glowing bright white under the headlights. My hands weren't quite on the ten-and-two position, and my elbows weren't locked in a rictus of overreacting fear. For the first time in ever, I was driving like a normal human being was supposed to drive, and that's when it all went horribly wrong.

The truck came out of nowhere. I was told later that it was an eighteen wheeler passing through an area of town it shouldn't have been in while traveling far faster than was ideal with a driver that had more alcohol in his system than was legally permissible given the situation. I have to take their word for it, because I don't remember what it was that hit us. I just remember a bright light, the massive bleating of a horn, and then the sickening crunch of metal and cracking of glass.

Outside the front windshield, the world was turning itself upside-down. The headlights caused shadows to jump and weave ahead of us, making the sense of gut-wrenching vertigo even worse. I turned my face away from the hypnotizing scene and looked over at Quinn. She continued to stare forward, her mouth open wide in a scream that I could just barely make out over the pumping of blood in my own ears. Her hair swung and dove around her head like a live thing as gravity and centrifugal force played havoc with our rapidly altering orientation.

The front left corner of the vehicle hit the ground first. Our momentum continued to carry the back end over, putting us into a maddening mid-air spin, like the SUV had suddenly decided to do some flying cartwheels. I closed my eyes at this point, but this was a mistake as it became even easier to feel the spin in my head and all the way down into my bowels. A thin stream of spit was leaking out of the side of my mouth, stringing its way toward the steering wheel and front dashboard.

We hit the ground again, but my attention was suddenly more concentrated on the something that smashed straight through the already spiderwebbed windshield and shot right by my cheek on its way toward the back seat. My eyes snapped open and I got a half-second glimpse of a road sign pole sticking into the cab with me, mere inches away from my head. Somehow I managed to reason in that brief moment of time that the sign itself must have been removed or it would have cut through my skull and I wouldn't be around anymore to make such insanely fast deductions.

The next spin was slower and lower, but no less frightening for all that. Night sky revealed itself to me in a parabolic arc, a pan and scan of Sagan's promised land, then fell to the side in favor of dirt and grass and cold, hard rocks. We hit, and this time we stayed as the front of the SUV buckled back in a way that would send any safety engineer scrambling back to the drawing board.

I had managed to stay silent for the entire vomitous trip, but a scream was finally torn from my chest as the front dash and steering wheel suddenly decided it was an excellent time to crush my thighs underneath them. If anyone else was still making any noise, I couldn't hear it over my own cries of pain and agony, but I could still hear the creaking sound of the vehicle as it slowly tipped over to land on its roof with a final _THUD_.

The pain in my legs continued, but after a few moments I was in a clear enough mental state to realize that the steering wheel was only squashing them. Nothing was broken, and I could still move my toes. I just couldn't move anything else because I was trapped, hanging upside-down.

"Mom?" I called out weakly. "Dad? Quinn?"

I turned my head around, wincing at the sudden burst of pain in my neck. Quinn was the first thing I saw, held to her seat by the safety belt, her arms dangling down and her face slack. Her legs were being held up by the buckled dash, but it didn't look like she was stuck there like I was. Moving my line of sight further, I saw Mom and nearly felt the lunch I had been holding onto for this long finally try to make its way up.

I choked it back down and forced myself to examine what I quickly knew had to be my mother's corpse.

It might have happened at any point during the crash. I found myself hoping that it was somewhere near the beginning. It would only be merciful to have taken her early so she wouldn't have had to live through all those horrible seconds just to die anyway. Blood dripped down from the massive crack in her skull, blood that matched the stain right next to the shattered window. I could only assume that her seat belt hadn't tightened quickly enough and allowed her to flop about until she'd gotten brained on the door.

Twisting until my spine popped, I forced myself around until I could see directly behind me where Dad was hanging, eyes wide in shock. I thought I saw a light in those eyes for just a moment, the ragged movement of a chest trying to pull one last breath into a collapsed lung, but it may have just been my imagination. The result was the same, death from the road sign pole that has passed me by to pierce my father and leave a bloody hole just half a foot south of his shoulder.

I wanted to rage at the unfairness, I wanted to grieve for the loss, I wanted to simply curl up and escape everything that had just happened, but it suddenly occurred to me that the situation might still be dangerous. Images of cars going up in flames and fireballs suddenly filled my mind, quickly followed by nearly blinding panic. I hastily unbuckled by seat belt and screeched in pain as all my weight was suddenly on my trapped legs.

Cursing and sweating and screaming bloody murder, I twisted and tugged and pulled as best I could, pushing and shifting and doing everything I could to extricate myself from my predicament. Back then, I wore a skirt normally insead of the jeans I favor now, and the second that skirt came out from underneath the steering wheel and flopped up, I felt the sharp edge of jagged plastic tear its way across my skin, accompanied by the feel of metal parts having their turn along the backsides of my legs.

It was like I had been caught by a set of massive jaws with uneven, tearing teeth. I felt the flesh pull away from itself, causing blood to run down my thighs and soak into the fabric of my underwear. But still I forced myself out of that space, ripping my skin to shreds all along the way.

Finally I pulled myself free and collapsed panting and weeping on the SUV's ceiling. I considered just staying there, certain that the pain of a fiery explosion couldn't possibly compare to what I was going through at that moment. But by chanced I happened to look back up and see Quinn's slightly swinging form just overhead. Unlike Mom and Dad, she didn't appear to have any immediately visible injuries. I couldn't tell if she was breathing, but it could have just been too shallow for me to notice in the dark.

The point was, _maybe she was still alive_. And if that was the case, I had more than just my own imminent demise to worry about. With a heavy grunt of effort and despair, I pushed myself up and dragged myself over to unclip Quinn's belt.

She fell unceremoniously to the ceiling, and I cursed myself for not being ready to catch her. It took what felt like forever to haul her legs over and get her positioned somewhat more comfortably before I started to crawl over her body. My door had been bent and twisted slightly, but it was still stuck in the door frame and the window had squeezed shut too far to get through. Absolutely useless. Quinn's door was the only way out.

Metal squealed against metal when I finally got the door unlocked and open. I crawled out, leaving smears of my own blood on Quinn's shirt as I dragged my torn legs across her, then turned back around and grabbed Quinn by the shoulders.

I don't remember much after that. I know that I did get her out of there and managed to pull her several yards away, because I do clearly remember looking up and seeing the wreckage some distance away, illuminated by faint starlight. I remember the wailing of sirens in the distance, slow and dreamlike as they filtered into my ears.

And then I remember nothing until I woke up in the hospital, legs bandaged from top to bottom and my entire body aching like I had been beaten all over repeatedly with a tire iron. The inner workings of my legs were just fine, it turned out, though I was still unsteady for a day or two. The only major damage I had sustained had been the cuts and tears in the skin, which I had been warned by the doctors would likely turn into a network of scars. But I had survived.

I had survived. My family was dead. And it was all my fault. If I hadn't suggested all of us going in the same vehicle. If I had just kept driving carefully. If I'd paid attention. If I hadn't been born. None of this would have happened. I killed my family.

At least, that's what I used to think.

But I'm not a killer.

I blink rapidly and wonder when exactly the DVD stopped. Wonder if it had actually ever been running at all. It had all been so clear, as if I'd been right there in the middle of the event again. And why not? It was the moment in time that I'd been living in for the past several months, wasn't it? The one that had kept me trapped in the past, never allowing me to see a present or future for myself, even as I tried so hard to repress it and pretend that it had never happened.

It's defined me since the moment it happened, and it's what's defining this place. It's what Silent Hill has been turning against me, using like a weapon to bludgeon me, to gnaw at me, to tear me apart like a wild beast.

No more.

I open the DVD player, pull out the disk, and put it back in its case in my backpack. Turning to the small table behind me, I start to pick up all the items left there for me and sort them into their respective places. Two Health Drinks, one of which I go ahead and drink down. Seven bullets for my pistol, just enough to refill my current clip. Four shotgun shells. A full clip of tommy gun bullets. And finally a palm-sized stone in the shape of a square and with a carving of a dragon on one side.

I look over at the door opposite the one I had come in through. Three square recesses in a circular pattern with three keyholes interspersed between them. A poem sits just underneath. Another puzzle. Another fucking puzzle.

I've had it with puzzles.

Without a second thought, I drop the stone tile on the floor and stomp on it with my heel until it cracks right down the middle. I then kick the pieces to separate sides of the room and step right up to the door.

"Open up," I say.

Nothing happens. I expected that.

"Little voice, I'm telling you to open up."

No response. I expected that too, but it still manages to raise my ire more than a little bit.

"You've been pretty quiet lately, little voice," I say sternly at the door. "Why is that, huh? You've been pretty helpful so far. Pretty gahdamn helpful. Now you don't have anything to say? No little hints, or clues? Why is that, little voice? Huh? _Tell me why that is?_"

_I'm . . ._

I'm scared.

"Tell me."

_I'm scared of what's on the other side of that door. I'm scared of where I've led you. I'm scared of what we've learned. I'm scared of what we're capable of, where we're going, how this is going to change our life. I brought you here on purpose, drove you forward even and especially when you were at your most frightened, but now . . . now I just can't._

I stand silent for a few moments. Then, with a sense of finality, I proclaim in a strong, steady voice, "Then you're _nothing_."

The new me, the whole me, swings the tommy gun forward and aims it at the door, right above the knob. With a battle cry of defiance and righteous fury, I unleash the weapon on the door, splintering the wood and sending chunks flying in all directions. I empty the entire clip as I cut around the knob, then pull back and plant a foot on the torn material. It cracks, fragments, then pops out of its newly formed slot as the rest of the door swings open wide.

No more secrets.

No more repressed memories.

Silent Hill holds no more locked doors. Not for me.

With a confident stride, I step forward, ready to finish this once and for all.


	12. Ground Zero

"Well, well, look who finally decided to show up!"

"Hey, Quinn," I say as I pop the tommy gun's clip and reload. "I've been looking for you."

"_Liar._"

I ignore her, swallow the lump that's formed in my throat, and look around at our surroundings. The door that I came through is still there but closed, and there's no wall surrounding it. It's simply standing free with nothing around or behind it. The sky above is filled with stars that just barely illuminate the scene. Instead of relatively flat metal, the ground is composed of dirt, grass, and rocks. Off to my right in the near distance, I can see an edge of asphalt cut off by a wall of darkness beyond. A metal sign post sticks out of the ground, dried blood coating the area where there isn't a sign.

I don't see the SUV anywhere, but I know where we are. Where we're supposed to be. I turn my attention back to Quinn, who is standing several yards away with her arms crossed and face screwed up with anger and impatience. She looks just like she did before all this happened, untouched by the ravages of Silent Hill. We must look like quite the pair out here, the perfect princess in her nice clean clothes and the ragged foot soldier fresh from the war.

Just looking at her makes me feel tired. Where I had imagined before that I could feel the weight of all my gear pressing down on me, now I really can. An entire world's worth of weariness settles around my head, my shoulders, pulling my limbs down as sleep threatens to overtake me. How long have I been at this? Hours? Days? Years? I try to remember having done anything other than trudge from one horror to another. It's so very very hard all of a sudden, and seeing Quinn looking as if she's just stepped out of the salon isn't helping matters any.

But I can't let it get to me. Can't let her words in. I've finally found her after all the searching and fighting and running, and I know what I have to do.

"No," I say. "I'm not lying. I'm here for you, Quinn. I'm here to bring you home."

She shakes her head, perfect lips curling up in disdain. "No," she snarls. "_Bullshit!_ You _killed_ me, Daria! You killed me, and then you _left_ me!"

"That's not how it happened," I tell her. I swing my gun around to rest and hold my hand out to her as I take a step forward. "I'm not a killer. It was an accident. You have to believe me."

"I don't have to believe anything you say!" she screams, stepping back, retreating from me. "Big brainy Daria, thinks she's so smart, thinks she knows everything, thinks she's always right! But you're _wrong!_ I died, and it's all your fault, and there's nothing you can say or do that will change that!"

"No." I take another step, she retreats again. "I pulled you from the wreck-"

"Do you know how much damage you can do moving an injured person?" Quinn asks nastily. "Of course you do, you're the _Brain_. But you did it anyway! _Murderer_."

I stop. She stops, then lets out a dark chuckle as she sees the look of horror pass over my face.

"It wasn't enough that you killed Mom and Dad. You had to take me with them. You always hated us, didn't you, Daria?" The tables have turned, and I back away as she begins to advance on me. "You thought you were better than us. That Dad was an idiot, that Mom was a bitch, and you resented me! You were jealous of my looks, my popularity, the fact that I actually lived my life instead of being cooped up inside my own bitter little shell like you! Well how does it feel, Daria? How does it feel now that you've gotten rid of us?"

She licks her lips obscenely as she runs her hands up and down her hips and continues to press in on me, almost towering over me with her presence. "I bet it feels _good_, doesn't it?" she continues. "No one left to ignore you, or push you around, or make you feel bad about yourself. You're all alone now, just like you always wanted. You even left Jane behind, didn't you? Poor ol' Janey. Your only real friend in the world and you ditched her. Maybe you should have killed her, too, just to make sure she stayed gone."

"No," I say again, but it lacks force. _Did_ I hate them so much? _Did_ I do all those things?

I can't think. I can't focus. I can feel my eyes rolling around in their sockets, but I'm not seeing anything through them. My brain feels like it's in a fog all of a sudden, my confidence dropping like a stone in a still pond. She's doing this to me, she's making me forget . . .

"_NO!_" I bellow. Reaching out, I plant both hands on Quinn's shoulders and push her back, nearly toppling her over onto her ass. "_No_, dammit," I growl at her. "I tried to save you. I _tried_. And it was an accident. I couldn't have planned the crash or seen it coming. Just because I lived doesn't mean everyone else dying is my fault! I am _not_ a _killer!_"

Quinn wipes at her shirt where I touched her as if I had tried to give her an infectious disease. Her green eyes are cold as she sneers at me and says, "You are. You killed me, Daria. And now you're going to pay."

Lifting her hands to her sides, palms up, she takes a few steps away from me and then lifts up in the air a few inches. The darkness surrounding us seems to become even darker as a yellow glow begins to encircle her like a heavy mist, swirling about her form. I hold up my hand to block my eyes from the intense light, then jerk around in surprise as a tearing, grinding noise comes from all around us.

It shouldn't be such a shock, of course, given everything else I've seen this far, but suddenly finding one's self standing in the middle of an arena marked off by sharp metal spikes exploding out of the ground is still a bit disconcerting. One of the spikes comes up straight through the door behind me, taking even that slim avenue of escape away from me. It looks like it's just me and Quinn now, and she-

The cellphone in my pocket screams to life for the first time since I left the room of a thousand monsters. My reaction is pure instinct at this point as I fling myself to the side, not even bothering to check which direction the attack might be coming from. Even as I cover my head with my arms, however, I see a bright light shoot right through where I had been standing. An intense heat washes over me as it passes, letting me know that if I hadn't dodged, I would be crispy fried Daria right now.

I land roughly on the ground but only take a second to recover before I start scrambling away. Looking over I can see Quinn still floating there, holding her finger and thumb out like a pistol. With a malicious grin that looks frighteningly out of place, she pulls her finger up to her mouth and blows on it like she's clearing the smoke from a gun barrel. Her eyes shift over to me and I can feel the phone begin to shake again as she lines up for another shot.

Amazing. With the wreath of light and her flawless features, Quinn looks just like an angel. But the look on her face is still pure devil. She's not fooling around. She truly means to kill me, even though I came all this way just to save her.

How's that for justice.

But there's not time to reflect on the unfair nature of the universe. I dig my feet into the ground and start to take a zig-zagging course around her in an attempt to throw her aim off, using the phone's vibrations to gauge which way to duck.

Finally tired of waiting for me to stop, Quinn pulls up a ball of light on the tip of her finger and lets loose, the discharge sounding like a massive firework going off. I arch my body to one side, but the ball passes by a little too close for comfort anyway, searing me as it passes a mere foot from me. My hair and clothes begin to smoke and their singed smell fills my nose. I have little doubt that I now have an impromptu sunburn on my ear, which is chattering at the pain centers of my brain loud enough to block almost everything else out.

I keep running, but I'm already starting to see the futility in this course of action. I can't keep dodging her attacks forever, and she's blocked off any way of getting away from her. I hate it, hate that I've come here on a rescue mission only for it to degenerate into a fight, but if it's the only way I can get out of here without losing my life or worse, then I don't have much choice. I reach under my shoulder and pull out my pistol.

Another light ball tears by me before I get a chance to stop, grasp the gun in both hands, and shoot. Quinn's face drops in surprise when she notices the three bullets coming her way even as my own heart drops into my stomach.

Just inches away from piercing Quinn's body, the bullets dissolve with a hissing sound, turning into harmless smoke and blowing away.

Quinn flashes me a wicked smile of triumph before she's suddenly overtaken by insane fury. "_YOU SHOT AT ME!_" she screams, her shrill voice echoing painfully in my ears. "Wasn't it enough to kill me out there? You have to kill me in here as well? You rotten _bitch!_"

Crap.

She holds both hands up and starts building a ball far larger than any previous. Her screams peal through the night as she pours all of her rage into the deadly light. I turn to run, but she's too fast and the ball shoots away from her, turning the grass black as it passes over. I twist in a last ditch effort to get out of the way, but it catches me in the side, lifts me in the air, and suddenly I'm back in the SUV again, spinning through the night in pain and confusion and terror.

I hit the ground and start kicking my legs, doing anything I can to try and get away from the fire that my left arm has become. I scream and I kick and I roll around, but I can't put it out no matter how hard I try. An endless age of pure pain drives through me, subsiding in degrees measured in eons.

Finally, I come back to myself and stand up, holding my smouldering arm in my right hand. I watch as nerveless fingers twitch at the end of my charred wrist brace, but I can't feel them or anything else below my elbow. My jacket sleeve is burnt black, and the skin of my hand looks much the same. I pant, ragged and wheezing as I finally tear my good hand away to grab a Health Drink from my backpack. Fortunately it looks like the attack took a lot out of Quinn, so I have some time to open the drink one-handed and down a few quick gulps.

Quinn glares at me as she too tries to catch her breath. But though she looks a little worn out, I'm not fooled. Her aura is no less bright than before. She has energy to last while I only have four drinks left after this. Time for another plan.

The wriggling worms of healing juices invade my arm, and the ensuing pins and needles are almost enough to make me cry out in pain again. I grit my teeth together and pick up my dropped pistol, not surprised to find the metal warm to the touch. As much as I wish it were otherwise, it and probably all of my other guns are useless at this point. Trying to shoot through her heat shield is just a waste of ammunition.

But all that leaves me with is the tire iron, baseball bat, and katana, and trying to go toe to toe with that melting heat doesn't seem like the best plan to me. Think, Daria, _think!_

No time left to think. Quinn sucks in a huge breath and lets it out explosively, ready for the next round. The phone tries to warn me of another impending attack, but I don't really need it this time. I can easily see the ball building up with my own eyes. Without any more obvious options, I launch myself into a sprint, the ball burning behind me to splash against the metal fence in a burst of heat and light.

Hey, wait a second.

I skid to a stop and reach back to pull out my bat. This is probably the stupidest thing I've done yet, but what the hell. If anyone else has any bright ideas, now's the time to speak up.

Quinn shakes her head at me almost pityingly when she sees me stop, bend at the knee, and pull the bat back over my shoulder. With a casual grace, she shoots her latest ball of light my direction and awaits my inevitable fiery death. The ball bears down on me, feeling like a furnace thrown by giant and almost as blinding as the sun itself. I hold my position even as my phone becomes more and more insistent that this is a bad idea. Then, just as I'm about to light up the night as a Daria torch, I take a swing.

The bat connects with the light as if it's a solid thing. Oddly enough, even though so many other laws of physics were just broken by this simple act, Newton's third law still takes full effect, shooting the ball straight back where it came from.

I see Quinn's expression turn to horror. She waves her hands back and forth as if she can persuade the ball from its course with simple gestures, but if anything she's merely fanning the flames. Her scream reaches a crescendo just as it connects and then gets drowned out by the sound of an inferno being unleashed, the rush of a back draft, the roar of an explosion. I move to duck and cover but instead get flung back by the concussive wall of air that rushes out to greet me.

It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust as the darkness presses in even closer, lit only by a few small grass fires here and there in the center of the arena. I hold my bat up and find that it's glowing slightly red at the tip itself. That was one hell of a fastball.

Gripping the bat firmly in both hands, I move in cautiously amongst the fires. Over the crackling of dry grass releasing what little moisture it holds I can hear crying. I follow it to its source, a dark figure curled up around its knees, face hidden. Despite the explosion that had been centered directly on her and her constant sobbing, Quinn shows up in the beam of my flashlight looking none the worse for wear.

"Quinn?"

The crying stops, followed by a wet sucking noise as she tries to clear her nose in a very unladylike manner. "Come to finish me off?" she asks sourly.

"Quinn, you have to believe me," I tell her with a sigh. "I'm not here to hurt you. I just want my sister back. I know she's somewhere in there, if all this . . . this shit that Silent Hill has glued to you would just come off."

"There is no _shit_," she snarls. "Silent Hill doesn't put anything there that wasn't already there! This is me! _This is Quinn!_"

She's standing up now and hunching her shoulders. She looks hard, menacing. I step back and hold up my weapon just in case.

"Your weapons are pathetic! _You_ are pathetic, and you know it! That's why you hide behind your books and your words! And now you're hiding behind your stupid little bat! Well, you can't be rid of your guilt that easily, Daria. I'm here to stay, and I'm gonna make damn sure you are too!"

Her body bulges at the seams. Muscles begin to pop out of nowhere as her arms and legs lengthen, causing her clothes to strain against the added mass before tearing apart completely. Metal pushes its way through her collarbones and begins to string out like taffy pulled by invisible wires. Her angelic guise has dropped completely, revealing the monster within and without, and she's halfway through the transformation when I realize exactly what she's turning into.

The metal continues to pour out of her body and molds itself into two sections hanging from her chest and her back. Then, with a resounding _clang_ they snap shut like a bear trap, blocking off that slasher grin and the insane eyes that never left mine for an instant. She stumbles for a second, but by then her body has become so strong that she easily regains her balance. Two lights in the chest snap on, cutting through the night, and I can hear the sound of an engine coming from deep within her. She reaches one clawed hand out, and a new spike of metal splits through the ground, placing its tapered end in her grasp. She pulls with all her might and uproots a club made of metal slag. A scream, primal and disturbing, echoes in the metal case covering her head and upper body.

Once again I stand before the thing from the gym. The thing that chased me away from the police station. A twisted form of my sister crafted to strike complete and utter fear in my heart.

It's still working.

I look at my bat then up at the pillar of metal towering over me. This hardly seems like a fair fight, so without a moment's hesitation I turn and I run. The problem here is, I don't have the running space that I did before. There's no alleyway to run through, and the twisted sister takes up a whole lot more room than the angel Quinn. So I'm kind of fucked, aren't I?

The phone buzzes as the club slams down behind me. "I know!" I yell at it. "I _know!_"

I arc around, following the edge of the circle and trying to come up with a plan at least half as brilliant as my last. The phone's warnings suddenly become sharper, so I push my heels into the ground and come to a stop a mere second before the club comes down again, this time in front of me. I notice in that moment that the club has buried itself partway into the ground, and as I jump over it in order to keep some of my forward momentum, I also notice that the twisted sister has to put some effort into lifting it back up again.

No time for perfect aiming, so I pull my tommy gun around as I continue running. With a few semi-precise shots, I manage to crack both lights and send the monster to its knees. The club, which had been a few feet up in the air, drops back down into the depression with a solid _thud_. I take the time to stop now and throw a few more bullets the monster's way, but annoyingly they simply bounce off the skin and metal. I curse as the lights begin to grow back and the beast regains its feet.

It's another puzzle, I realize as I go back to running. Another fucking puzzle! _I hate these gahdamned puzzles!_

But fine! Fine! I'll just put the twisted sister on her knees like so wait not like that NOT LIKE THA-

"YEEEAAAAAAARRRRGH!"

I only got a couple of shots off before she managed to get her club up and swing it to the side, swatting me like a fly. I think something's broken, but my head is currently swimming too damn much for me to tell exactly what it is. The phone buzzes and I dodge blindly, barely getting out of the way in time.

Another drink, I need another drink, but as I try to pull one out of my backpack I realize that the broken thing is my upper right arm. Lucky the tommy gun is on a strap or I would have lost it. I shake my head to try to clear it, then I have to dodge another grand slam, and both actions make my arm burn with pain before going disturbingly numb along one side. But that's okay, 'cause now I've got a Health Drink in my left hand even though I'm not entirely certain how it got there because of the concussion I'm just dimly becoming aware of that I have in my head.

Ignore it, drink, that's all that's important. Tingly sensation in my arm and my head, making things clearer and more defined.

That club is getting to be a real bitch. More out of spite than out of having any real idea of what I'm doing, I decide to do something about that. The last of the tommy gun's current magazine sends her to her knees once more. I push the gun around and quickly pull out my katana. With a rebel yell of supreme pissed-off-edness, I leap toward the club with the blade held high and bring it down in a shining arc.

To my complete and utter surprise, it cuts straight trough, as easily as it sliced through the air. I hit the thick portion of the club, however, meaning all I really did was put a nice little notch in the bastard.

But you know what? That's okay. I can work with this. New plan firmly in hand, I sheathe my sword, dodge another attack as I pull out my shotgun, and then I run up nice and close to the twisted sister to let loose two quick shots.

"Hahahahaha!" I cackle maniacally as she goes down. Not sure where that came from. Feels kinda good, though.

I switch back to the katana and in three rapid chops, I've severed the main bulk of the club. The twisted sister was just pulling up on it at the time, and the sudden loss of resistance sends her staggering back with only a small bit of slag in her hands. Her anger is quick, vocal, and very very loud.

"I took away your toy, bitch!" I yell at her. "Now _give me back my sister!_"

She backhands me, sending me to the ground and letting me know what she thinks of my demands. Blood trickles from the side of my mouth where my lip is split, and as I rub my jaw I swear it feels just a little bit looser than it did before. She has one hell of a pimpslap, I'll give her that.

I roll to the side just in time to avoid having my spleen stomped out of me, then twirl to an upright position and let loose with the contents of my shotgun. Blood mists the air as two of three of the pellet sprays either hit or graze flesh, and even the one that hit mostly metal seems to have actually scored the paint job. The twisted sister screams in agony as her invulnerability is proven to have worn off with the loss of her weapon, but I get the feeling she's not nearly done with me yet.

Even without the club, she moves slowly as she swipes at me with both arms, trying to catch me in a bear hug. I turn and easily outdistance her as I run to the other side of the arena where I stop to switch out shot for tommy. A new magazine gets popped into the gun and I get ready unleash it on the monster when I find that the monster has unleashed a surprisingly fast charge on me. It's only thanks to the cellphone's warning that I manage to step to the side, but she still clips my shoulder on the way past and knocks me reeling.

She clangs her head like a gong on the wall of spikes and does the same dance of dizziness as me for a bit. I luckily recover first and run over to the other side of the circle to crack open another Health Drink. My injuries at this point are still fairly light, but if she does that charging thing again I need all the dammit here she comes!

I get away clean this time, except that I drop the can in my hand, spilling the other half of the drink inside on the ground. Without giving the wasted heal a second thought, I hold up the tommy gun and hose down her back with the entire contents. Blood flies through the air, but after recovering from hitting the wall, the beast is still just as spry as before. My right jacket sleeve gets torn by her claws as I spin away from the attack.

Running backwards from her, I go for another tommy gun magazine only to realize I just used up the last one. Well isn't that just swell! I undo one of the fastners on the gun's shoulder strap and toss it in the twisted sister's path as I turn to run away at full speed. The obstacle doesn't slow her down one bit, and the next charge is just as sudden as the last, almost catching me off guard.

I use her disorientation this time to reload my shotgun, then pound three shells into her front before she reaches down, snatches the gun out of my hands, and tosses it over the spike wall.

"Gah_dam-_" I get out just before being slapped full across the face again. This time when the charge comes, I'm still on my back and she runs straight over one of my legs and oh look at that the bandages have come apart a little and I can see something white and red sticking out of the skin and shit oh shit where's another Health Drink fuck fuck fuck it doesn't hurt yet I think I'm in shock please let me get the drink down before it starts to hurt and "AAAAAAAAAARRRAAAAAAHHH!"

I gulp at the drink like a madwoman and get to my feet as soon as I'm sure both of them will sustain my weight without sending white-hot splinters up my shin and thigh. Time to take stock, Morgendorffer. You've got one Health Drink left. You're out of bullets for the tommy gun, and the shotgun is now forever out of your reach. The twisted sister is starting to recover from her last charge and is now looking your way like you owe her money.

What do you do?

You pull out your pistol, put your head between your knees, and kiss your ass goodbye.

I don't bother trying to back away from her this time. I'm obviously only doing about fifty-fifty with the charges, and even if I knock her silly again, what's that going to do? All I've got is this pathetic pistol and a handful of melee weapons. Even if the katana can cut through time and space itself, the second I get within range to do it I'll be smashed to pieces. So I stand my ground, aim my little pop gun, and start shooting the bitch in the gut.

She comes at me just like before, seemingly without pain and definitely without stopping. She's several yards away and picking up speed even as the wounds already lacing her skin are joined by new ones. I shoot and shoot and shoot until the clip runs out, then I reload and shoot some more.

So this is it. I start to laugh again as I keep firing, but there's no maniacal edge to it. This is simply the sad laughter of a woman who knows that she's lost. That she's about to die. I can feel tears start to run down my grime-streaked face.

I'm sorry, Quinn. I tried to save you.

I'm sorry, Mom and Dad. I hope that wherever you are, you know that even though I never said it that much, I really did love you both.

I'm sorry, Jane. I guess you're gonna be spending your college years in Boston without me. It looks like I'm about to become a permenant resident of the town called Silent Hill.

And most of all, I'm sorry, Daria. I-

The twisted sister trips and goes down on one knee. Without really even thinking about it, I'm still pulling the trigger, pelting her torso with bullet after bullet. She puts her hand up to her belly, and one of the fingers gets blasted off, caught in the line of fire. I hear the clip run dry as the slide pops back and stays there, but I still try to pull the unresponsive trigger anyway as I watch the monster shudder, topple, and then lie completely still.

I stand and stare at the fallen behemoth. I'm not sure, but . . . I think I just won.

Heh.

"I won," I say, testing the words on my lips. They sound strangely hollow, and I sure as hell don't feel like celebrating. I drop the spent pistol and fight to keep my balance. Before I can give up the fight and simply drop to the ground, though, I hear a sound coming from the twisted sister and come to immediate attention.

Of course I didn't win. I just wore her down until she had to take on yet _another_ form. A never-ending supply of infinite forms for the most tenacious of my mental monsters, ready to torment me for an eternity. Except I can't last an eternity. Even if I gathered up what's left of my meager resources, I would only last a few minutes at best. I can't. I just-

"_Help!_"

Okay. _That_ sure as hell doesn't sound like the new, terrible form of a deadly adversary. My jaw drops as I quickly scramble forward, gripping at the seams of the twisted sister's metal mask with my fingertips. All fears of a continued fight have been washed away by that single muffled word, only to be replaced by a whole new set of fears as the edges of the metal tear at my fingertips and I accomplish nothing more than hurting myself with a futile gesture.

A flash of lucidity hits me as I press my fingers against my jacket to staunch the bleeding. As quickly as I can manage, I throw off my backpack and reach in to pull out my old friend, the tire iron. Working smarter, not harder, I jam the prying end of the iron into the seam, slam it home further with the heel of my hand, and then put all my weight into levering it down.

The metal squawks in protest as I slowly, jerkily force it open. The movement and voice inside fall silent as I work, which only sends me into a greater frenzy to accomplish my task. With adrenaline soaked strength I give one final push that cracks the shell open wide enough that I can get my boots and hands on either side and pry it the rest of the way like a human jaws of life.

Lying there, curled up in a ball and shivering with fright, is Quinn.

"Hey," I say softly. "Hey, Quinn, it's okay. It's me. Daria."

She doesn't respond, so I grab up my last Health Drink and crawl in with her. When I touch her shoulder she twitches away, but after a little cajoling I manage to get her to sit up a little. Her eyes are shut tight and she won't even look at me, which cuts me right to the heart. What has this place done to her? What have _I_ done to her?

It's time to start setting things right. I crack open the drink and tell her, "Sorry about the taste, Quinn. But it's good for what ails you."

I put the can to her lips, and at first it seems like she's going to refuse to drink. After a moment however, her lips open and she takes a few tentative sips.

Even that little bit has an immediate effect. Her shivering begins to subside and she starts to take larger gulps of the drink as she sits up on her own. Finally, her eyes pop open and she turns her head to splutter and cough, wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve.

"Oh my _gawd_," she says with disgust. "What _is_ that stuff, Daria? It tastes like _hamburger grease!_ I-"

She stops suddenly and looks around in shock. " . . . Daria?"

"Yah, sis. It's me."

I smile at her. Not my normal Mona Lisa, but a full, open smile that she watches in wonder before throwing her arms around my neck and hugging me like I was the last life preserver on the entire ocean.

"Oh God Daria it's been so terrible there were these things and I saw them doing all these terrible things and I wanted to stop them but I couldn't and everything was so dark and scary and I just wanted to go home and this voice kept saying these awful things about you and Mom and Dad and all my friends and I don't understand what's going on at _all!_"

"It's okay," I tell her as I pat her gently on the back. "You're safe now. It's almost over. Isn't that right, Mordecai?"

Quinn gasps in surprise as she notices the white-haired man standing behind me. I can almost sense him rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously as he says, "Yes, Miss Morgendorffer, it would certainly seem that way. And I do apologize . . . I didn't mean to eavesdrop or anything."

"No, you're fine," I say as I stand up and help Quinn out of the casing. "Sis, this is Mordecai Kingsley. He helped me find you."

"A pleasure to meet you, my dear," Mordecai says as he dips into a generous bow, takes Quinn's hand, and gently kisses her knuckles. Quinn, being Quinn, is immediately set at ease by this display of dashing gentlemanly conduct.

"Oh, you," she says with a giggle. "And . . . thanks."

"Not at all!"

"So, what brings you out to my little corner of hell?" I ask conversationally as I look around a the scarred battleground.

He gives me a lopsided smile as he digs through one of the pockets on his waistcoat. "Well now, as you said, your ordeal is indeed almost over," he replies, "and as you may remember, I once said that I could give you the key . . . "

With a small flourish, he pulls a simple metal key out of his pocket and holds it out to me. Slowly I reach out and take it, almost feeling as if taking it too quickly or handling it too roughly might break it, tearing it asunder like the fragile wings of a butterfly. I flip it over to let it rest in the palm of my hand then look back up at him.

"Thank you," I say gravely. Then, after a moment's thought, "So hey, I've been thinking. Exactly how many people have you actually saved from this place, anyway?"

"Including you?" he replies, rolling his eyes around in a comical parody of deep thought. "Exactly . . . one." His eyebrows pop upward a millimeter and he looks over at Quinn, adding, "Or perhaps, make that two. But, my dear ladies, I'm afraid I may not have quite saved you just yet. After all, though I did give you the key-"

"-only I can find the door," I finish. So stupid, maybe even cliche, but I turn to one side anyway and find that sure enough, there's a door standing there where there hadn't been one before. And considering just how ready I am to get the heck out of here, I'm ready to take any cliche in a storm.

"Thank you so much, Mordecai!" Quinn tells him, standing on her tiptoes to give him a small peck on the cheek. "Good luck helping other guys!"

Mordecai puts a hand on his cheek and smiles at us as we walk away from him. "And a good journey to you, Miss Morgendorffer!" he calls out to us. "I hope you finally find the peace you seek!"

As Quinn and I step up to the door, hand in hand, I feel that yah, maybe - just maybe - that's finally possible. I could do with some peace.

"Ready to go, sis?" I ask.

Quinn nods firmly. "Ready!" she says. "And, Daria . . . thank you for coming for me."

"Every time."

I put the key in the lock, turn it, and then open the door as bright light spills out and surrounds us on all sides.


	13. Hospital

My eyes blink and water slightly as early morning light hits them from a sky just starting to turn a brilliant summer blue. I step out from under the overhang to stare straight up into that void that seems so bright and vibrant and alive to me for the first time in months.

A strange sense of calm settles over me as I pull my gaze away from the few fluffy white clouds overhead and look around at the parking lot of Jack's Inn. The pavement is clean of any blood smears, Dad's car is sitting right where I parked it, and through the main entrance I can see Toluca Lake off in the distance. No monsters scuttle about in a world of mist, no strange deformities plague the landscape, and everything seems . . . normal.

I look down at myself to see that I have undergone a similar transformation. I no longer wear a wrist brace on my arm or bandages on my legs. My clothing - formerly torn, burnt, and soiled by dirt, filth, and blood - is whole once more. All of my weapons and other equipment is missing, and the backpack I was carrying most of it in is nowhere to be found.

It's almost as if the entire thing never happened.

With a trace of sadness, I run the fingers of one hand down the palm of the other, remembering the feel of Quinn's slender hand there. I find myself missing it and wishing that I could just turn around and find her standing off to the side, turning her face toward the sun to feel its rays on her skin. I find myself turning and finding nothing and no one there. I return to my room and idly begin to search it, but Quinn's bag is gone from the side of the bed. None of her beauty products sit lined up on the alcove counter. No evidence that she was ever here presents itself, and even though I knew this would be the case, it still weighs heavy on my heart.

I'm not even sure why I bothered. I know exactly where she is.

As I walk from the room over to the inn's office, I take a few moments to marvel at the sounds around me. No muffled screams, alien grunts, or the clanking, squealing noise of rusty machinery. Just light traffic in the distance and the sound of geese flying overhead. Hopefully I'll manage to enjoy it all again without wondering where all the creepy stuff is hiding.

Inside the office I ring the little bell on the front desk. After a few moments, a blonde woman just a few years older than me steps out of the back and greets me. "How can I help you?"

"Just checking out," I tell her as I push the room key across the counter. "Hey, is Eric here by any chance?"

"Mr. Stohlman?" she asks brightly. "I'm afraid not. He only works the night shift. Can I pass a message along for you?"

I give her a slight smile. "No, thanks, it's nothing that serious. I just wanted to make sure he was okay. He was looking a little under the weather last night."

"Oh, well, there was a bug going around just a little while ago."

"I'm sure that's all it was," I assure her, though not myself. Part of me suddenly wants to stick around and make sure he shows up for his next shift . . . but with any luck, a white-haired stranger might just be setting him on the right path this very second. "This is a nice place you have here, by the way."

"Why thank you!" she says, almost as if she herself built Jack's Inn from the ground up. "Hopefully you'll come back some day and stay a little longer with us!"

"Maybe I will."

Not a chance in hell.

Despite the lingering morning breeze blowing off the lake, the cab of the car is still a little warm and stuffy. I take a moment to settle down into the driver's seat, put on my seat belt, then push up my glasses to put my face in my hands. My mind completely blanks for several minutes as I simply sit there, slowly breathing in and out and simply _being_. It's been so long since I've just _been_. Without pain. Without suffering. Without worrying over the million little things I could and should have done.

It's still all there, of course, just waiting for the right moment to pounce back on me. But for the first time I feel like there's the shadow of a possibility of a chance that maybe, just maybe, things might get better in the future. And though this seems like such a small thing, it's so invaluable and precious right now.

Hope.

Wiping my hands down my face to clear the hint of tears from my eyes and cheeks, I reach into my pocket and pull out my keys to find one of Quinn's scrunchies hooked carefully into the ring.

* * *

The soft and steady woosh and beep of machinery tells me that everything is, relatively speaking, okay. Not so relatively, it's spirit-crushingly so very not okay.

I hold Quinn's hand in my own, my thumb rubbing idly over her fingers. Fingers that are so thin already, and they're only going to get thinner if things don't change. She never really was a bundle of girth, and nearly two months of inactivity has worn her down to almost nothing in depressingly short order. I wonder if maybe she could use a steak or at least a few celery slices in her drip.

Oh, Quinn. I'm so sorry.

When I pulled Quinn from the wreckage, I didn't notice the large bump on the side of her head from where she had slammed it against the front dashboard. It almost certainly happened when we had hit the ground nose first and the dash had buckled in toward us, but since I had been dealing with my own smashed legs at the time, it's somewhat understandable that I would have missed the event as it happened.

I more clearly remember dragging her away from the car, my own wounds leaving a red trail in the dirt behind us. The rest is still fuzzy, but some small things here and there managed to dislodge themselves from the once-darkened sections of my mind as I made my way from Silent Hill to Lawndale. I sat there for the longest time, holding my sister and crying out for help, before someone finally pulled over and came to see what had happened. I wish I could remember anything about them, even what they looked like. You should remember the face of the person who saved your life.

Whoever they were, they got on their cellphone and called 911. It may just have been my dizzy state of mind, but it seemed like it took hours for the police and ambulance to show up. And the whole time I rocked Quinn back and forth in my lap, begging her to wake up, begging her to not be dead. The EMTs nearly had to peel me off of her by force, but as they started to check her over it became readily apparent that they couldn't do anything for her there.

They couldn't do anything. The police couldn't do anything. My parents were dead, I was hurt, and my sister was dying, and they couldn't do a damn thing about it.

I can feel the anger welling up inside me again, but I roughly shove it down before I start squeezing Quinn's fingers hard enough to break them. It wasn't their fault. I shouldn't blame them. I think . . . I think all the anger I built up against them in my head has really just been a smoke screen anyway, one of the massively improper ways I was already building up to deal with all the misplaced anger and blame I held for myself at the time.

One of the EMTs gave me something, and everything gets kind of swimmy after that right up until I woke up in the hospital in a bed almost exactly like the one I'm sitting next to now. Shortly after my conscious state was noticed by the nurses, a doctor came in and gave me the bad news that my parents were both dead, as if I hadn't already known that, like I hadn't actually been in the vehicle with them when it had happened.

What had been news to me was that while Quinn was still alive, she had gone into a fairly deep coma and it was unknown if she would wake up from it anytime soon.

Over the next couple of weeks my cuts began to heal up, and thanks to a short round of physical therapy I was able to walk again without severe pain. The painkillers they prescribed me certainly hadn't hurt toward that little goal. But the most pressing reason I felt for getting up and about was so I could go and see Quinn. And when I finally did . . .

When I did, the first thing I did with my newly recharged legs was to run away. And damn if I didn't just keep on running. I couldn't stand it, couldn't bear to look at her and see what I had done. I had to retreat from her, from myself. Seeing her was just too painful of a reminder of my own savage guilt. So I packed up, set the house to sell, drained all the family bank accounts except one to help pay for Quinn's care, and got ready to start my new life in Boston.

And here comes the guilt again. Only this time, I damn well deserve it. I'm such a shit.

But I'm here with Quinn now. And maybe that makes things just a little bit better.

"Hey, sunshine, how's it- . . . oh, hey! The Prodigal Morgendorffer returns! How's it hangin', amiga?"

I jerk my head around in surprise before I remember I really should have expected this. But even though it's unexpected, it's not unwelcome. I give the new arrival a sheepish smile and say, "Hey, Jane."

Jane shuts the door behind her as she steps in, careful not to topple over the huge floral arrangement she has wedged precariously in the crook of one arm. "Didn't really expect to see you here," she says as she sets the flowers on a nearby table. "I figured you'd be knee deep in Boston baked beans and Boston creme pie and all the crazy little stock markets they've got running around up there by now."

"I got a little sidetracked," I tell her.

"Seems more like a backtrack to me." With a happy sigh she plunks herself down in the chair next to mine. "Not that I'm complaining, mind. Glad to see you back. Double glad to see you visiting Quinn. You know I'm gonna keep coming by to check up on her, 'course, but . . . she needs her sister, you know?"

"Yah. I know."

I look down at my knees for a moment and feel my vocal chords constrict a bit, the tension a perfect physical symptom of my sudden uncomfortableness, my hesitancy to say what needs to be said next. When the words finally come, they're small and hesitant, and the voice that hits my ears hardly sounds like my own.

"I'm sorry I tried to leave you," I say. "Both of you. All of you. I shouldn't have, not like I did. I shouldn't . . . I'm just . . . sorry."

After a long silence, I feel Jane's hand on my shoulder. "It's okay," she tells me, voice soft with forgiveness. "I mean hell, you don't have to apologize to me, anyway. I know things have been rough for you."

"Thank you," I say as I put my hand over hers. Another long pause follows, then I ask, "Do you think she hates me?"

"Who, Quinn?" Jane returns, incredulous. "Why would she hate you?"

"I just-" Oh, God. "Do you think she knows that Mom and Dad are dead? Do you think . . . that she knows what I did, and she hates me for it?"

The hand is removed from my shoulder and I hear the same heavy sigh that I've been hearing for the past month and a half now. It makes me flinch, but I wait for the oncoming answer without complaint.

"Daria, you know she doesn't. She might not even have any clue we're here right now. They said she's been having some almost-waking moments every once in a while, but . . . look, the point is, even if she _does_ remember what happened, she isn't gonna hate you for what happened. She's your sister. And if there's one thing I've noticed about you two lately, that actually means something."

She's right, of course. Has been right every time she's said it. I just need to hear it every once in a while still, and will probably need to again and again until Quinn actually wakes up to say it to me herself. I . . . I think . . .

"When I get up to Boston," I hear myself saying, "I think I'm going to start going to therapy."

Jane waits for a few moments before replying. I don't blame her. It's the sort of thing I've said and then quickly retracted lately during a mood swing or a moment of weakness. But not this time.

"Thank you," she finally says, almost too quietly for me to hear. Then louder, as if to cover up the sudden sentimentality, "So anyway, I was just stopping by to deliver a little gift from Quinn's fashion fiends and make sure she's being treated right! I'm done with the first and it looks like you've got the second under control, so I think I'm gonna head out and let you two get back to whatever it was you were talking about before I so rudely interrupted. Come by Casa Lane before you head off this time?"

"Of course," I assure her with a smile. "Bye, Jane."

"Adios, amiga."

As Jane opens and closes the door on her way back out, I take Quinn's hand again and stare at her slack face sitting angelic and peaceful amid her fiery red hair.

Hope. Such a small thing. So precious.

And always worth holding onto.

**END**

Roland 'Jim' Lowery  
esn1g(at)yahoo(dot)com

July 16, 2011


	14. Credits

**Silent Hill: Screams of Silence**

Director  
Roland 'Jim' Lowery

Scenario Writer  
Roland 'Jim' Lowery

Based On Settings Created By  
Keiichiro Toyama  
Glenn Eichler  
Susie Lewis Lynn

Programmer  
Roland 'Jim' Lowery

Original Design  
Roland 'Jim' Lowery  
based on the work of Masahiro Ito

Cast  
Tracy Grandstaff - Daria Morgendorffer  
Wendy Hoopes - Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Helen Morgendorffer  
Julian Rebolledo - Jake Morgendorffer  
Marc Thompson - Mordecai Kingsley, Gas Station Attendant  
Russel Hankin - David Presser  
Alvaro J. Gonzalez - Eric Stohlman  
Sarah Drew - Front Desk Clerk

Sound Direction  
Roland 'Jim' Lowery  
YouTube

Soundtrack  
"Silent Hill" by Akira Yamaoka  
"You're Not Here" by Akira Yamaoka  
"Fixing My Brain" by Brad Sucks  
"Toxic" by Britney Spears  
"What It Is To Burn" by Finch  
"Fragile" by Kerli  
"Grow Grow Grow" by PJ Harvey  
"Sleeping Awake" by POD  
"Schism" by Tool

Special Thanks  
thatLONERchick (for all the support and for doing a little beta reading)  
Team Silent (for the great games)  
The _Daria_ Crew (for the great show)  
Charles RB (for the screams)  
Kristen Bealer (for the maggots)

And all the rest of my readers, for being awesome as hell.

* * *

**GAME RESULT**

Action Level: Normal  
Riddle Level: Normal

Ending: Hospital (Good)  
Ending Clear: 1/5

Saves: 45  
Total Time: 234 Days

Thank you for playing!

_Would you like to save your game? Yes/No_

* * *

**Silent Hill: Screams of Silence**

New Game +  
Continue  
Load  
Options  
Theater 


	15. Dream :Bad Ending:

I carefully pick up the key and hold it in front of me by the small leather strap threaded through its head. It looks almost as old as the table it was sitting on, black iron pitted with age and wrought into a beautiful design. Turning it in the light, I can see that the head has been crafted to resemble that of a dragon, and the key's body is more subtly shaped like flames emerging from its mouth.

I pick up the clip and the drink, leaving behind perfect imprints of them in the dust. The rest of the attic is devoid of any more surprises, so I head back downstairs, items in hand. I approach the area where I left Eric slowly just in case he's woken up and still has a mad-on, but the sound of heavy snoring hits my ears.

Though no longer unconscious, he seems to have rolled over and is now merely asleep. Not that I can blame him. As tensed up as he was before, if he'd been drinking any Health Drinks he must have burned through the enlivening effects pretty quick.

Quietly, so as not to wake him, I gather up his weapons and then set them and the stuff from upstairs next to . . .

Hmm. You know, I'm not sure why I'm leaving that stuff with him, really. I'll leave him the weapons, I guess, since none of it seems too much better than what I have already, but I've learned pretty quick that every Health Drink counts. And really, I'm the one who found the key. If there really is some crazy little elf leaving things all around Silent Hill for people to find, then what sense would it make for him to leave something for Eric where I was searching?

Besides, it's not like he's going to miss any of it since he won't even know it was there in the first place.

On the way out, I close the door and reach back in to lock it. Hopefully nothing with hands comes along and makes the gesture pointless. Hopefully David decided to fuck off somewhere instead of sneak in and finish Eric off after I leave.

Either way, I'm done here.

* * *

I open the DVD player, pull out the disk, and put it back in its case in my backpack. Turning to the small table behind me, I start to pick up all the items left there for me and sort them into their respective places. Two Health Drinks, one of which I go ahead and drink down. Seven bullets for my pistol, just enough to refill my current clip. Four shotgun shells. A full magazine of tommy gun bullets. And finally a palm-sized stone in the shape of a square and with a carving of a dragon on one side.

I look over at the door opposite the one I had come in through. Three square recesses in a circular pattern with three keyholes interspersed between them. A poem sits just underneath. Another puzzle. Another fucking puzzle.

Resigning myself to the inevitable, I shuffle over and let my eyes wander momentarily over the meandering poem talking about St. George and dragons and the like.

Oh, hey.

My memory jogged, I reach into one of the side pockets on my backpack and pull out the dragon-head key that I found back in the curio shop and compare it to the stone plate I just picked up. Though it looks like they were crafted by different artisans, the design of both dragons is one and the same. Not because I think it'll do any good yet but more just for the hell of it, I place the plate in one of the depressions and twist the key in the hold just underneath it.

To my mild surprise, the key clicks and the door softly swings open a quarter of an inch. I guess as far as these stupid puzzles go, this one has been a lot more stupider but at least a great deal more tolerable.

With a hesitant stride, I step forward, slightly curious to see what's on the other side.

* * *

I skid to a stop and reach back to pull out my bat. This is probably the stupidest thing I've done yet, but what the hell. If anyone else has any bright ideas, now's the time to speak up.

Quinn shakes her head at me almost pityingly when she sees me stop, bend at the knee, and pull the bat back over my shoulder. With a casual grace, she shoots her latest ball of light my direction and awaits my inevitable fiery death. The ball bears down on me, feeling like a furnace thrown by a giant and almost as blinding as the sun itself. I hold my position even as my phone becomes more and more insistent that this is a bad idea. Then, just as I'm about to light up the night as a Daria torch, I take a swing.

The bat connects with the light as if it's a solid thing. Oddly enough, even though so many other laws of physics were just broken by this simple act, Newton's third law still takes full effect, shooting the ball straight back where it came from.

I see Quinn's expression turn to horror. She waves her hands back and forth as if she can persuade the ball from its course with simple gestures, but if anything she's merely fanning the flames. Her scream reaches a crescendo just as it connects and then gets drowned out by the sound of an inferno being unleashed, the rush of a back draft, the roar of an explosion. I move to duck and cover, but the light is simply too bright and too fast. The ball continues to expand, engulfing everything in its path, and I can feel my skin begin to melt right off my bones.

* * *

I woke up, strangely, to the sight of a kitchen cabinet door pressed up against my forehead.

With a sudden, violent jerk, I pulled myself back and searched around wildly for a few seconds before I realized that the entire episode had been nothing more than a nightmare. I took a moment to calm my breathing and poured myself a cup of coffee from the already-full pot.

Despite having reassured myself that it hadn't been real, I still glanced around on my way over to the table just to be sure. No screaming ball of light was exploding anywhere I could see. The day on the other side of the sliding door's glass was turning out bright and sunny with no sign of any fog or preternatural darkness whatsoever. No monsters cavorted about, ready to tear me apart.

Even the oppressive heat that I had felt before seemed to be nothing more than a figment of my half-awake imagination, which only stood to reason. It was getting on into the hottest part of summer and all, but this early in the morning it was still a little bit cool at least. The house's AC could be set nearly to freezing anyway, and after assessing my immediate environment, I decided that it was, for once, at just the right temperature.

After taking a moment to clear the sleep out of my eyes, I sat down at the table and snatched up one of the sections of yesterday's newspaper to read.

The desperate silence of an empty house echoed all around me.

**END**

_You have unlocked **Dream** (Bad Ending)._


	16. Plug :Worst Ending:

"And you won't," he says with absolute certainty. "You didn't shoot me before. You won't now. You don't have it in you. I've been shot at before. You don't even have half of what they hand. You don't have the guts. You're not like me. You're not a killer."

He takes a step forward, and it requires all of my self-control not to piss my jeans. My hands feel like all of the nerves have been stripped out of them. Even though I can clearly see everything below my wrists shaking like crazy, I simply can't feel it. My fingers are numb blocks of wood on the ends of my arms. He takes another step. And another. Just a few more and he'll be within range to simply snatch my weapon away from me. Turn it against me. Or, perhaps worse, simply fling it in the corner and do something far, far worse.

I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't.

I-

I-

I-

I reach down inside myself and find nothing there.

"Wrong," I say, stopping David in his tracks. "You have no idea what I am."

"Wha-?" he manages just before my hands stop shaking and I squeeze the trigger twice, planting two bullets directly into his chest.

One of the shots hits him just under the collarbone, sending out a glut of blood from the exit wound in his back. The other goes in just under his nipple and lodges somewhere inside of him, possibly bouncing off a rib or two. I've heard they can do that. He takes both hits very well, after a fashion, neither falling down from the force nor screaming from the pain. Of course, it may be that he's simply too shocked that such a fragile, peaceful creature has suddenly grown claws and decided to use them against him.

He's still in my way, so I send him tumbling to the ground with a well placed kick in a very sensitive area. This time he tries to scream, though it comes out more or less as a gusty wheeze forced from his lungs. As he lies there, he grabs at his bruised junk with one hand while trying to staunch the flow of blood pouring freely from his chest with the other. I carefully step around him, my gun still aimed at him the entire time just in case. Once I'm on the other side, I head straight for the opposite corridor and the ladder it contains. I get one hand on the first run when I hear a soft scraping coming from behind me.

At first I think it's coming from David, and it is possible that his feeble attempt to crawl along the concrete after me is part of it. But back in the tunnel I can see the true source of the sound. There's something - several somethings - slowly plodding their way through a darkness that travels along with them as the candles in the walls blow out with their passing. I can only just make out some of their outlines but no details until they actually step into the room itself.

David is trying ever more desperately to reach me, but not in order to enact some form of revenge. He's staring behind himself, staring at the creatures now fanning out to encircle him. He's trying to reach me because he thinks I'll save him.

Wrong again, David.

The first woman-thing reaches him and delicately extends the wide blades it has in place of fingers toward his ankle. Its leather-bound hand twitches and its slavering mouth waters in anticipation for what is to come.

They surround him, each reaching for their own piece of the meat trapped in their midst. At last David screams, and once it starts it doesn't stop. I start climbing and keep going until I can't hear him anymore.

* * *

"Well, well, look who finally decided to show up!"

"Hey, Quinn," I say as I pop the tommy gun's clip and reload. "I've been looking for you."

"_Lia-_"

Before she can finish the insult, I level my weapon at her, pull the trigger, and spray hot lead in her direction until the magazine is empty. I swing the spent gun back under my jacket and pull out my pistol as I walk to stand over her bleeding, broken form. She's looking up at me in surprise, having never expected anything like this.

"I'm tired, Quinn," I tell her, my voice carrying the full weight of my weariness. "I'm tired of this town. I'm tired of chasing after you. I'm tired of having to go through all this just to get back to the real world where Mom and Dad are still dead and you're still stuck in a hospital bed. I can't . . . I can't take it anymore."

A tear falls on her face, mingling with the red fluid spattered there. I reach up with my free hand and it comes away from my eyes wet. It's a strange sensation, almost as if I'm watching someone else cry from the inside.

"But," I continue, almost conversationally, "I'm not really one for suicide. I've considered it, believe me. More than once, with some of those times being even before this current mess of things. So I'm afraid that if I want to truly be free of this fear and pain and guilt I've been carrying around inside me, I'm going to have to look into . . . alternative methods of treatment.

"I'm sorry, Quinn."

She opens her mouth to say something, maybe to scream or beg for mercy, but I put my hand over it as the barrel of the pistol finds its way to her temple.

When the nasty business is done, I find the door out and I kick it the fuck open.

* * *

I watch, face carefully even, as the casket is slowly lowered into the grave.

It's a small ceremony. Quiet. Dignified. Only a couple handfuls of people are here, including me. If it had been up to me, it wouldn't have included me, but that wouldn't have been proper and I would have caught hell for it eventually. Grandma Barksdale and Grandma Ruth weren't footing the whole bill this time like they did with Mom and Dad's funeral, but they're contributing enough that they have a say in my attendance. That is to say, they ensured it was mandatory.

Both grandmothers are here themselves, of course. The former Fashion Club stands in solidarity over the fallen form of their comrade, their mascara running in a tasteful manner under their mourning veils. The three J's look sadder than I've ever seen them look, sadder than the time Quinn tried to foist them off on Andrea for a while. And finally, there's Jane.

Jane knows.

Throughout the proceedings, I've looked up from time to time only to see her staring at me. Sometimes she'll look away, pretending that she'd been staring at something else the whole time. Sometimes she'll hold my gaze for a few moments before dropping her eyes or looking to the side. But on just a few occasions she's done as she's doing now. She's stared directly at me, _into_ me, and I've had to be the one to break away.

I don't know how she knows. Maybe she just found the whole incident far too convenient. Maybe she actually picked up a thing or two from watching too many medical episodes of _Sick, Sad World_. Maybe she's just guessing. But one way or another she's figured out that Quinn's death was not caused by a random infection, and she knows it was me.

Maybe it would have helped if I'd been patient enough to wait instead of simply putting the bacteria in the IV line just shortly after I returned to Lawndale. Funny, though, that no one else has figured it out given that little "coincidence". I guess no one else could possibly imagine that Daria, despite her Misery Chick image, would dare do anything so untoward against her own sister.

Of course Jane knows me better than everybody else.

But she doesn't have any evidence, thankfully. If she did I doubt I'd be standing here right now. I'd be in cuffs already. Or at the very least she would have confronted me. But she hasn't said word one to me since it all went down. And frankly, that suits me just fine.

With the body gone to the depths and ready to be covered in earth for eternity, the people gathered as witnesses to the event begin to break up into their little groups and head out. Tearful good-byes are said, even between those who either don't know each other very well or don't know each other at all. A few well-wishers put their hands on my shoulder, look me deep in the eyes, and tell me that everything will be alright, assure that Quinn has gone to a better place.

Jane is not among these people. I glance around to find her staring back at me one last time before she ducks into her new junker of a car and drives off without a word.

Maybe someday she'll understand. I have to live my life. I couldn't have Quinn weighing me down anymore. My sister was dead already, and all I did was take out the trash she left behind.

By the time everyone has left and the heavy machinery begins to pour one scoop of dirt after the other in after the casket, a light mist of rain starts to fall down around me. As I stand in the slowly gathering fog and turn my face up to the heavy clouds rolling overhead, I tell myself again that killing Quinn had been the only way to free myself from the burden of her death.

And this time, I even start to believe it a little.

**END**

_You have unlocked **Plug** (Worst Ending)._


	17. Queen :UFO Ending:

I turn into the nearest classroom, its door having been blown straight off by the explosion. Inside I find five shotgun shells sitting in a row along the edge of a desk. I reload the shotgun and throw the extra shell into my pack with the rest. A Health Drink sits in the corner of the room as well, so I retrieve and store it while ignoring the crucified corpse hanging from the back wall. Which is hard to do considering it seems to be twitching slightly.

Truth be told, I'm starting to feel a little twitchy myself. My mysterious benefactor, if I actually do have one, seems to be getting extra generous again. And we all remember what happened the last time, don't we, kiddies?

I pass by the door to the commons area and look out to see the metal bruiser still marching its merry way around. From the looks of things, I might not have to head out there at all to see the rest of the school, but I do have to wonder if that means he's guarding something special. Maybe if I break into the principal's office this time, there'll be a bazooka or something waiting for me.

. . . dammit. I'm actually curious and hell if I'm not going to let my curiosity get the better of me.

This is going to require some split second timing if I'm going to make it, however. Rather than just rush out there and make a mess of things, I stay by the door and carefully watch the monster on its route, counting out each step it makes and roughly gauging how long it takes for it to get from one side of the area to the other.

After some careful consideration, I decide that the best time to run out is when it's just getting past the door to the other side of the school. It'll be good and far from where I'll be jumping in at that point, and it'll have its back to my target, meaning it will have to take some time to turn around and come at me if it even notices me. I don't think it has eyes in its back, but then I don't remember seeing any eyes on it anywhere at all.

My heart thumps loudly and adrenaline dumps into my system as I prepare myself for the big plunge. One foot braced behind me, ready to propel me forward at a moment's notice, the other one bent slightly at the knee up front. I put my hand lightly on the door, place my hand on the door . . . and I'm _off!_

I don't look around to see if the thing heard me bang through the door or notices me running full tilt through its lair. I keep my eyes forward and my legs pumping as I burn rubber across the rusty metal underfoot. And then, naturally, things go completely wrong.

Some idiot put bars over the window.

There's no glass separating me from the room beyond, but the rusty pillars attached firmly to all four sides of the window deny me immediate access, and no amount of cursing and spitting at them seems to persuade them to step aside.

The metallic bellow of the bruiser behind me reminds me of my predicament just as the cellphone in my pocket decides to go into a frenzy. I could freeze in shock at this moment, but fortunately my system is still jacked up from starting this run in the first place. With a herculean thrust with my legs, I put myself back in motion, half-running and half-dodging to one side just as the bruiser plants its massive metal foreplate into the building wall.

As soon as I can recover my equilibrium, I swing my shotgun up and get ready to pump what little of the thing's flesh I can see full of pellets, but it quickly becomes apparent that there will be no need whatsoever. The thing hangs up against the wall for a few seconds, greenish blood seeping from underneath its plates, and then it falls back on its haunches before collapsing utterly and lying completely still.

I'm not sure if its dead or just knocked out. I'm not sure if I really care. What I _do_ care about at the moment is the fact that the beast's ferocious charge made an enormous dent in the wall that skewed the bars on the window over just enough to let me squeeze through.

Aw . . . what?

I get through the tight space to find that the entire room is dark and empty except for a small pedestal right in the middle. On top of this pedestal is what I take at first for a twisted lump of slag but slowly realize is supposed to be some kind of art piece. What a complete ripoff.

With a heavy sigh, I pick up the dull bit of abstract art and look it over. It's kind of spike shaped with smaller spikes extending here and there, and most annoyingly the base is broken. Part of it is missing, leaving on a half-circle for the thing to sit on. The pedestal looks like it was set up to handle such an unusual stand, but unless I want to carve a half-hole in a table or something, it'll fall over whenever I set it down.

Completely useless. But whatever. I put this much time and effort into getting it, I might as well keep it. Somewhat discouraged, I put the little statuette in my backpack and head back out to the hallway again.

* * *

Nothing. Just to be sure, I try them all again. They go in, and it looks like they should work, but not a single one will turn. I try the door anyway, but it doesn't budge. Feeling a slight hint of aggravation, I move on to the second cell and give the keys another go.

Still nothing. I am not happy with this. If these aren't the holding cell keys, then what are they?

Third cell, still no luck. Fourth cell, exactly the same. By the time I'm walking down to the fifth, it's become something of a personal challenge for me. One of these doors will open to one of these keys. It will.

I'm working on the sixth when the slight sound of movement from the entrance tickles my ear. I snap my head around instantly, but the gloom is too thick in here for me to see much past the nearest two cells. The phone is staying silent, which makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle even more than if it had been making noise. It could be the relatively harmless Mordecai. It could be the creepy David or the dangerous Eric. Or maybe it's someone completely new, worse than all three.

Reaching up as quickly but as quietly as I can, I flip my flashlight off and stand perfectly still in the ensuing darkness. I know there's a very good chance that whoever it is already saw me since my flashlight would stand out like a lighthouse, but I'm really not in the mood for dealing with any of the various crazies running around this nuthouse of a town.

As my eyes adjust a little to the dark, I can gradually make out a human-shaped splotch in the distance. I can't make out any details, and even the broad strokes are a little difficult to pin down, but it looks to me like they're crouching down and reaching into one of the cells, possibly the first one on the block. Whatever strange mission they're on, I guess they finish it because they stand up straight and stealthily creep out the double doors.

Allowing myself to breath once more, I turn my flashlight back on and ponder these events. I'm not really sure what to make of it, but then I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to make of half the things that go on around here. It looks like the person - or thing - put something in one of the cells, and I do have to admit to a certain curiosity, but finally I decide to finish checking these keys before I even bother. It's on the way out, after all, and I'm sure it'll keep for a few more minutes.

I make quick work of the rest of the keys on the sixth door, then move on to the seventh and last where, hey holy crap, speaking of things being left behind in the cells . . .

Amazingly one of the keys actually works this time, and I'm able to retrieve the errant object which, even more amazingly, appears to be some kind of companion piece to the statuette I found back at the school. This one is made of something like bronze, I think, and its design is one of circles curling in and around each other, but the half-circle base is exactly the same.

Weird. Oh, well. I put my latest acquisition in my pack and head back to the first cell to see what - if anything - got left behind earlier.

* * *

Padded walls and ceiling over metal grated floor stretches on for several minutes before the first new feature appears. I come across a small alcove that appears to have been forcibly dug out of the wall, revealing that behind the padding is solid rock. A strange altar sits in this alcove, carved directly out of the rock itself and festooned with two candles on either edge. I recognize the candelabras as the ones that were on the altar in the curio shop back in the fog world, and it's a bit of a shock to see them here.

There are no helpful items or keys sitting on this altar, however. The only other feature besides the candles is a set of two indentations in the stone, two half circles with their flat faces turned toward each other. It looks like something is supposed to be placed in them, either the bases of-

Holy crap!

Well now this is actually a little exciting. Remember those two weird statuettes that I found at the school and the police station, kiddies? The ones I've been lugging around this entire time without any clue what they were for or if they even were for anything at all? Well guess what!

I pull the two figurines out of my backpack and check the bases against the indentations in the altar's surface. Sure enough they match up, so like some kind of reverse Indiana Jones, I take the artifacts and carefully place them in their respective slots.

At first it seems as if nothing is going to happen at all, but then everything begins to shake just slightly, like there's an enormous earthquake taking place two counties over. There's a steady rumbling noise as this happens, then suddenly both stop with a faint _click_. Tracing the origin of the sound to right behind me, I turn around to find that the wall there has moved aside to reveal another stone alcove, this one containing not an altar but a door.

The corridor beckons for me to continue journeying down its padded length, but the call of this door is at once more frightening and more irresistible. As a great wise man once said, this means something. This is _important_. I put my hand on the knob, turn it, and step through to find myself standing in a wide grassy field devoid of anything aside from myself, the grass, the huge flying saucer, and the twenty or so grey aliens aiming their ray guns at me.

So, that's interesting.

Even though I don't have any of my own weapons out and ready to go, we still all stand there, staring at each other in some sort of weird Space Mexican stand-off. Afraid to make any sudden running away for my life movements lest I get fried where I stand, I decide instead to just say the first thing that pops into my head.

"Hi," I greet them. "My name is Melody. I'm looking for my cousin. Have you seen her? She's got red hair and she's-"

"SILENCE!" one of the aliens "says". "OUR NEW LEADER WISHES TO HAVE WORDS WITH YOU!"

"Uh . . . sure? Take me to him?"

Oh, it looks like they won't be taking me to him but rather the other way around. The hatch on the UFO pops open with the hissing sound of escaping atmosphere and the whining noise of heavy duty hydraulics. Just like all the old 50's alien movies, it takes forever, lacks any of the suspense they probably hoped to build up, and looks incredibly fake. Still, what do I know from alien technology? This could all be extremely futuristic and I'm just jaded by horrible Earthling special effects.

Finally the ramp extends to the ground and a humanoid figure ambles its way down, backlit by a bright bluish light and heavy dry ice smoke. And boy, I have to say that the figure looks kind of famili-

"Hi, I'm Artie!" says Artie as he waves one greasy hand at me.

It's the weirdo pizza guy. Bowl-cut red hair, acne scars, and all. He's the alien leader.

I'm repulsed and not at all surprised at the same time.

"Wha-? Buh-? Huh?" I splutter as Artie comes to a stop right in front of me, his red lined black cape looking idiotic over his sparkly silver spandex onesie.

"They came back, Daria! Isn't that cool?" he asks. "And they made me their king! Which is, like, a totally sweet gig, let me tell you!"

Okay, okay, the rest of this? No sense whatsoever. But I think I can finally get hold of at least one small point.

"Wait, hold up," I tell him, putting a hand up to forestall any more nonsense. "I thought you were afraid of the aliens! What the hell?"

He waves his hand dismissively, almost looking bored. "Jeez, Daria, that's so in the past now," he says. "Yah, okay, sure, I was a little sore about the whole abduction thing and I was gonna tell them I wasn't going to be their stupid old king, but then they told me I get to pick my own queen!"

"No."

"And guess who I picked!"

"No no no."

"Oh my yes!"

"Nonononono!"

But even as I reach for my guns and no matter how much I kick and scream, the aliens manage to surround me, grab my arms and legs, and drag me up the ramp and into their spaceship with Artie following close behind.

"Just wait until they give you your new skin, Daria! You'll love it!" he says cheerfully, running a hand sensually along the top of his own arm. "It's just so darn _smoooooooooooooth!_"

"_NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!__!_"

**END**

_You have unlocked **Queen** (UFO Ending)._


	18. Recovery :Best Ending:

I pick up the clip and the drink, leaving behind perfect imprints of them in the dust. The rest of the attic is devoid of any more surprises, so I head back downstairs, items in hand. I approach the area where I left Eric slowly just in case he's woken up and still has a mad-on, but the sound of heavy snoring hits my ears.

Though no longer unconscious, he seems to have rolled over and is now merely asleep. Not that I can blame him. As tensed up as he was before, if he'd been drinking any Health Drinks he must have burned through the enlivening effects pretty quick.

Quietly, so as not to wake him, I begin to gather up his weapons to set them and the stuff from upstairs next to his feet. As I'm doing so, however, I steal glances over at his slumbering form and begin to wonder.

Hmm.

Yah. Okay. New plan.

I go ahead and finish gathering up his stuff, but instead of setting them anywhere near him, I take them further back in the store and set them behind one of the display cases again, just out of sight. Picking up the can from upstairs, I move back over to Eric, sit down on the floor, and start to lightly shake his shoulder while softly calling his name. The initial response is an irritated grunt followed by more snoring, but by degrees I finally manage to get him to some kind of waking alertness.

"What the _fuck?_" he yells when he notices me, then enters a thoroughly uncoordinated scramble into the nearest wall. After bouncing off and rattling the various curiosities hanging from pegs overhead, he sits curled up in the corner and stares at me, visibly shaken.

I could ask him to call down. I could _tell_ him to calm down. I could try to appeal to him, or reason with him, or start explaining things. Instead, I calmly pick up his Health Drink, pop the top, and set it on the floor between us.

He looks from me to the drink then all around, undoubtedly trying to figure out where his rifle and hatchet went off to.

"What did you do to it?" he asks, the fear evident in his voice.

"I opened it," I say plainly. "I can't make you, but you really ought to drink it. I'm sure you've got a hell of a headache right now."

His hand moves instinctively to the back of his neck, close to the spot where David beaned him with that big length of pipe. "You poisoned it!" he shouts, fear turning into hysterics once more. "You brought me here and now you're trying to poison me!"

"If I'd wanted to kill you," I tell him, frowning slightly with displeasure at the thought, "then I would have done so while you were unconscious. But I don't want to. And I didn't bring you here. I'm trapped just like you are, which I was trying to tell you before you tried to shoot me for no good reason."

"No no no-"

Okay, my new plan sucks and I'm already starting to lose my temper. "Dammit, Eric, if you had killed me, you would have killed an innocent woman!"

My outburst was meant to shock him, but I didn't realize just how deeply the shock was going to run. His tan face turns almost sheet white as the blood drains away, and I think he's stopped breathing entirely, simply staring at me in stupefied horror. His jaw works for a few seconds with nothing coming out, then he clenches his teeth and shuts his eyes tight. From watching him I almost get the impression of a fish out of water gasping for oxygen only to find that the air around him is made of acid.

"I'm . . . sorry," I say, quieter and without quite knowing why I'm apologizing at all, only I don't think he could possibly look more stricken without actually being stone cold dead.

The muscles in his neck gradually relax, and after a moment he wipes his hand across his face and looks around as if seeing everything - not just his surroundings, but _everything_ - for the first time.

"No," he finally says, "_I'm_ sorry. It's know it's not your fault. I just-"

"-freaked out," I finish for him and nod my understanding. "It's disturbingly easy to do around here. Here."

I pick up the drink and hand it to him, and this time he takes it gratefully. I wait patiently as he downs the entire thing in several long gulps, makes a face, then closes his eyes and puts his head back against the wall.

"So who . . . ?" he asks, jerking a thumb at the back of his head.

"Just some guy that's been following me around," I tell him with distaste. "Sorry about that. I didn't even know he was there until he clocked you. I would've stopped him if I had."

We fall into a long silence before he speaks up again.

"I tried to shoot you," he says without looking at me. "Why are you being nice to me?"

Good question. I shrug and say, "I dunno." Then, "It's just . . . there's all this weird shit going on. I don't know if you've noticed. And I've been thinking about it a little bit. Particularly about the 'why are we here' thing. Not so much in an existential sense, but a more concrete 'what gets you a one-way ticket to Silent Hill' kind of way. And I thought maybe you would have a little more insight into it."

Eric chuckles and throws one of his hands wide. "You've got me. I don't have a clue why I'm here, or you're here, and I haven't seen anybody else. Except for those . . . things."

"Did you-" I start, then bite my lower lip nearly clean off. The next question is going to be hard. I don't know why, exactly, but it is. "Did you . . . do something?"

He looks up at me now, eyebrows coming together in a mixture of confusion, curiosity, and caution. "Like what?" he asks.

"Like . . . hell, I don't know. Something . . . bad. Or made you feel bad. Something that might have driven you . . . a little crazy."

"I don't like this question," he says, looking away again. "Ask me a different one. No, don't do that. It's just going to be a worse question, isn't it?"

It is. So in my great wisdom, I decide to skip it. I think I've got the answer I need now anyway.

"Your stuff is behind the cabinet over there," I tell him as I stand up. "There's some ammo and a key I found upstairs. I think they're yours."

"Thanks," he says, unmoving, still staring off into space.

I stretch my legs to shake the pins and needles out. Then, without any further ado, I leave Canopy Curios and get back to finding the local police station.

* * *

"And you won't," he says with absolute certainty. "You didn't shoot me before. You won't now. You don't have it in you. I've been shot at before. You don't even have half of what they had. You don't have the guts. You're not like me. You're not a killer."

He takes a step forward, and it requires all of my self-control not to piss my jeans. My hands feel like all of the nerves have been stripped out of them. Even though I can clearly see everything below my wrists shaking like crazy, I simply can't feel it. My fingers are numb blocks of wood on the ends of my arms. He takes another step. And another. Just a few more and he'll be within range to simply snatch my weapon away from me. Turn it against me. Or, perhaps worse, simply fling it in the corner and do something far, far worse.

I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't.

I-

_Thock!_

Thock?

As I watch, stunned, David's eyes cross and he slumps down to the ground, unconscious. I look up to find, of all things, Eric standing there with David's pipe in his hands and looking down with a look of disgust. "Is this the asshole you were talking about?" he asks, and it takes me a few seconds to realize what he's talking about.

"Oh, yah," I say distantly. "He's the one that knocked you out."

Eric looks up at me with a smile as he hefts the pipe thoughtfully. "Guess that makes us even then."

Guess so. Wait, what?

"Eric? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Saving your life?" he says as if he doesn't understand the question. "I don't know, really. I was just following these sewer pipes and all of a sudden there was all this padding on the walls, and then I popped out here. Or over there, I should say."

He turns and points at an open manhole sitting in the very corner of the room. "I saw this guy giving you a hard time, found this pipe sitting up against the wall, and decided to put two and two together." He raises his eyebrows. "Did I do good?"

I'm not one given to over-dramatic displays of affection like hugging the person who just saved me from a psychotic madman. Now is no exception, but I definitely feel like it might have approached being one.

"Jesus Christ, yes," I tell him breathlessly.

The gun in my hand is still shaking slightly, and I take a moment to make it stop, catch my breath, and take in the new Eric. Since last we met at the curio shop, he found a new button up shirt that suits him well, and he's added a few new weapons to his personal armory. A backpack sits strapped to his shoulders, looking very much like my own, funnily enough. And I don't really know if I look even half as grimy and beat up as he does, but if I do, then I look absolutely fucking atrocious, even by my standards.

"Okay. So. Wow," I say after a moment. "Um, thanks for saving me. I . . . I just really didn't want to shoot him."

"It's probably best you didn't," he replies, then frowns slightly. "I've been thinking about what you said before. You know, about my having done something bad. And . . . I think I did. Sometimes I think I can get the feel of it, just the edges, but then it sort of slips away if I actually look at it for too long. I don't know if that makes any sense at all-"

"Perfect sense," I assure him.

He looks at me with something like wonder. "Right. So anyway, I've been thinking that this place . . . feeds on that or something. And if we do things like what we did before, either for real or just symbolically, then it just makes the monsters stronger. I don't know what you did, Miss Morgendorffer, but if it involved shooting someone, or killing them . . . "

His sentence trails off, but I understand what goes unsaid. And yes, it does make absolute sense. Too much damn sense, almost.

"Then I guess I need to thank you for stopping me too," I say. "But hey, what do you say we put this little thanks-fest on hold for the moment and find somewhere better to chat? I'm not exactly looking forward to being around when Little Boy Blue here wakes up."

Eric readily agrees and the two of us move over to the only exit that doesn't involve one or the other of us backtracking. As we climb the ladder up through the padded concrete tube, we leave David and whatever horrible plans he had in store for me behind. Even with Eric here with me, I just don't feel confident in trying to do anything to help David. It's unfortunate, but I think Mordecai may have been right and David's simply beyond any help at this point.

I can only hope that someday, somehow, he'll be able to overcome his demons. For now, I still need to focus on beating my own.

* * *

I blink rapidly and wonder when exactly the DVD stopped. Wonder if it had actually ever been running at all. It had all been so clear, as if I'd been right there in the middle of the event again. And why not? It was the moment in time that I'd been living in for the past several months, wasn't it? The one that had kept me trapped in the past, never allowing me to see a present or future for myself, even as I tried so hard to repress it and pretend that it had never happened.

It's defined me since the moment it happened, and it's what's defining this place. It's what Silent Hill has been turning against me, using like a weapon to bludgeon me, to gnaw at me, to tear me apart like a wild beast.

No more.

I open the DVD player, pull out the disk, and put it back in its case in my backpack. Turning to the small table behind me, I start to pick up all the items left there for me and sort them into their respective places. Two Health Drinks, one of which I go ahead and drink down. Seven bullets for my pistol, just enough to refill my current clip. Four shotgun shells. A full magazine of tommy gun bullets. And finally a palm-sized stone in the shape of a square and with a carving of a dragon on one side.

All this in hand or stored away, I go back to the door I came in and knock on it, letting Eric know I'm finished. I had asked him to step out while I watched the DVD, and he had complied immediately, having had the same idea himself. He's a pretty decent guy, it turns out, despite whatever shit may have gotten him stuck here.

"Are you okay?" he asks the second he's in the room. So you see, case in point.

"No," I tell him truthfully. "But I think I will be. Suffice to say, theory proven. Something awful happened . . . but I'm going to put it right. I can't ask you to go any further with me on this, but-"

He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. "Hey, don't worry about it. I get the feeling that if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have made it this far in the first place. Whatever's on the other side of that door, I've got your back. Okay?"

"Thanks."

"No problem. Now, let's see here . . . oh, hey, that's weird."

To the amazement of both of us, Eric reaches into his pack and pulls out not just the dragon key I found back in the shop, but two more keys and, of all things, two more stone plates like the one I'm holding.

"I've been wondering what these go to," he says. "Um . . . tell you what. I'll supply the puzzle pieces if you figure out the puzzle. I'm a little crap at these nursery rhymes."

Fucking puzzles.

But despite my misgivings, the work proceeds fairly quickly. It's actually a rather simple cypher combining the tales of St. George the dragon slayer with the game of rock/paper/scissors, and after just a minute or two, I've got all the stones in their slots and all the keys in their holes. The end result is a soft _click_ followed by the door swinging out slightly.

"Ready?" Eric asks.

"Definitely," I reply.

With a confident stride, I step forward, ready to finish this once and for all.

* * *

She stops suddenly and looks around in shock. " . . . Daria?"

"Yah, sis. It's me."

I smile at her. Not my normal Mona Lisa, but a full, open smile that she watches in wonder before throwing her arms around my neck and hugging me like I was the last life preserver on the entire ocean.

"Oh God Daria it's been so terrible there were these things and I saw them doing all these terrible things and I wanted to stop them but I couldn't and everything was so dark and scary and I just wanted to go home and this voice kept saying these awful things about you and Mom and Dad and all my friends and I don't understand what's going on at all!"

"It's okay," I tell her as I pat her gently on the back. "You're safe now. It's almost over. Isn't that right, guys?"

Quinn gasps in surprise as she notices the two men - one with a shock of white hair and the other looking as battle hardened as I do right now - standing behind me. I can almost sense Mordecai rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously as he says, "Yes, Miss Morgendorffer, it would certainly seem that way. And I do apologize . . . we didn't mean to eavesdrop or anything."

"No, you're fine," I say as I stand up and help Quinn out of the casing. "Sis, this is Eric Stohlman and Mordecai Kingsley. They helped me find you."

"Hello," Eric offers as a simple greeting.

"A pleasure to meet you, my dear," Mordecai says as he dips into a generous bow, takes Quinn's hand, and gently kisses her knuckles. Quinn, being Quinn, is immediately set at ease by this display of dashing gentlemanly conduct.

"Oh, you," she says with a giggle. "And . . . thanks. Both of you."

"Not at all!"

"So, what brings you out to my little corner of hell?" I ask the librarian conversationally as I look around at the scarred battleground.

With a small flourish, he pulls a simple metal key out of his pocket and holds it out to me. Slowly I reach out and take it, almost feeling as if taking it too quickly or handling it too roughly might break it, tearing it asunder like the fragile wings of a butterfly. I flip it over to let it rest in the palm of my hand then look back up at him.

"Thank you," I say gravely. Then, after a moment's thought, "So hey, I've been thinking. Exactly how many people have you actually saved from this place, anyway?"

"Including you?" he replies, rolling his eyes around in a comical parody of deep thought. "Exactly . . . one." His eyebrows pop upward a millimeter and he looks over at Quinn, adding, "Or perhaps, make that two." He then looks over at Eric with a warm smile. "And if I'm clever and lucky, perhaps I shall make it to three before the day is out.

"But, my dear ladies," he continues suddenly, "I'm afraid I may not have quite saved you just yet. After all, though I did give you the key-"

"-only I can find the door," I finish. So stupid, maybe even cliche, but I turn to one side anyway and find that sure enough, there's a door standing there where there hadn't been one before. And considering just how ready I am to get the heck out of here, I'm ready to take any cliche in a storm.

"Well, Eric," I tell my comrade in arms, "it's been real, as the kids say these days. I wish I could help you out with your stuff, but just stick with Mordecai. It may not seem like it, but he knows what he's talking about."

Eric gives the other man a sidelong glance, but nods and puts his hand out to shake mine. "If he got you this far, I guess it's worth a shot giving him a listen," he says. "Now you get back to the real world and see if you can find some peace over there."

"Thanks. I think for once in my life, I could really use some peace."

Quinn and I wave our goodbyes to the two men, then we step up to the door hand in hand.

"Ready to go, sis?" I ask.

She nods firmly. "Ready!" she says. "And, Daria . . . thank you for coming for me."

"Every time."

I put the key in the lock, turn it, and then open the door as bright light spills out and surrounds us on all sides.

* * *

My eyes blink and water slightly as early morning light hits them from a sky just starting to turn a brilliant summer blue. I step out from under the overhang to stare straight up into that void that seems so bright and vibrant and alive to me for the first time in months.

A strange sense of calm settles over me as I pull my gaze away from the few fluffy white clouds overhead and look around at the parking lot of Jack's Inn. The pavement is clean of any blood smears, Dad's car is sitting right where I parked it, and through the main entrance I can see Toluca Lake off in the distance. No monsters scuttle about in a world of mist, no strange deformities plague the landscape, and everything seems . . . normal.

I look down at myself to see that I have undergone a similar transformation. I no longer wear a wrist brace on my arm or bandages on my legs. My clothing - formerly torn, burnt, and soiled by dirt, filth, and blood - is whole once more. All of my weapons and other equipment is missing, and the backpack I was carrying most of it in is nowhere to be found.

It's almost as if the entire thing never happened.

With a trace of sadness, I run the fingers of one hand down the palm of the other, remembering the fell of Quinn's slender hand there. I find myself missing it and wishing that I could just turn around and find her standing off to the-

I turn around and find her standing off to the side, turning her face toward the sun to feel its rays on her skin.

" . . . _Quinn?_"

She spins around, cheerful smile on her face, and says, "Hey, you were right, Daria! It feels _great_ out here! Kind of a shame we're leaving, I guess. I was thinking maybe we could, like, go down to the lake or something."

I put my hand over my mouth both out of shock and in an attempt to keep everything inside of me from just coming out all at once. I can't believe what I'm seeing, what I'm hearing. But there she is, as big as life and in the flesh. My sister Quinn, fully restored to the land of the living. She-

No.

No, wait. What the hell am I thinking?

"Hey, are you okay?" Quinn asks, noticing the tear that's suddenly rolled its way down my cheek. Genuine concern clouds her face as she leans in to put her hand on my shoulder.

"Yes," I tell her as soon as I'm able to wrest back control of my own voice. "I just . . . I had the dream again. That you were still . . . "

She nods in silent understanding. The same dream, at least once a week and sometimes more. A nightmare in which she's still in the coma that held her for only five days in the waking world. A nightmare that just won't go away, just like the false guilt for having been the one driving during the accident that put her in that deep sleep. Hopefully the therapist I'll be seeing in Boston will be able to help, but right now all I want more than anything else right now is just to keep looking at Quinn, feeling her hand on my arm, and knowing that she's alive.

Really, truly alive.

"I'm here," she reassures me. "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere, Daria. Okay?"

"Okay," I say with a nod, then do my best to switch from "I'm a nervous wreck" to "I'm the boss now" mode. "And sorry to put a rain cloud over your parade, but we need to get packed and get moving, alright? No lake trip today, but if we get out of here quick enough, maybe we can get an hour of mall time in before we hunt down the apartment, okay?"

Quinn rolls her eyes dramatically, but I can tell that she's clearly mollified. "Oh _fine_, Dah-ria," she mock grumps before spinning her way back into the room to start gathering her things. "Oh, hey, you said you wanted to borrow my phone, right?"

I don't remember making any such request, but my head is still a little fuzzy from the nightmare, so I say, "Yah, if you don't mind." She tosses the phone through the doorway and I catch it with something approaching dextrous proficiency. "Thanks."

Though my brain is still trying to play catchup, my fingers apparently know what they're doing. I quickly sort through Quinn's contacts list, hit the Send key, and put the phone up to my ear as it starts to ring.

"_Hello?_"

I smile at the sound of her voice. "Hey, Mom."

"_Hey, is that Daria?_" I hear Dad call out in the background. "_Hey, tell her I said hi! Jakey says hi, honey! Are you gonna tell her, Helen? Hi, Daria!_"

"_Yes, dear, I'll let her know. Honey, your father says hi._"

I laugh and say, "Tell him hi back for me."

We make small talk for a few minutes. Normally I hate small talk, but today it just feels right. Just hearing their voices on the other end of the line no matter what they're saying . . . I need this. When we finally get to the business of why I called, to tell them Quinn and I are about to head out and should be in Boston by the end of the day, I feel sad that I have to let them go. Who would have imagined that? Daria Morgendorffer, devoted and loving daughter.

It's a title I should trot out a little more often, I think.

As I walk from the room over to the inn's office, I take a few moments to marvel at the sounds around me. Light traffic in the distance and the sound of geese flying overhead. The beauty of mundania. Inside the office I ring the little bell on the front desk, and after a few moments Eric steps out of the back and greets me.

"Miss Morgendorffer," he says pleasantly. "How can I help you?"

I look up at him in surprise. "Oh, hey. I didn't think you'd be here this morning, too."

"I decided to take a double shift," he says with a shrug. "Did you sleep well last night?"

"Not really, to tell the truth, but it didn't have anything to do with the room," I tell him as I push the room key across the counter. "This is a nice place you have here, by the way."

"Thank you very much," he replies graciously. "Hopefully you'll come back some day and stay a little longer with us. I believe you'll find a vacation on the lake to be rather peaceful."

"Yah. Maybe I'll see about coming back this way when I'm on break."

Huh. To my own great surprise, I'm not entirely certain whether or not I'm just saying that.

By the time I make it back to the car, Quinn has gotten everything stuffed more or less back where it came from in the back seat. After taking a moment to enjoy the lingering morning breeze blowing off the lake, we both duck into the car, put on our seat belts, and prepare for the long journey back south.

"Ready, sis?"

Quinn nods firmly. "Ready!"

We pull out of Jack's Inn and turn to leave Silent Hill at last, moving on to a future that's finally starting to look just a little bit brighter than before.

**END**

_You have unlocked **Recovery**(Best Ending)._

Congratulations! You have unlocked all endings.

Thank you for playing **Silent Hill: Screams of Silence**.


End file.
